Entanglement
by LucyCrewe11
Summary: When Peter discovers a door leading into another universe, he has no idea he's about to play a major role in a fantastic plot involving a sword, magic twins, wolves, and a young, unprepared queen who might just be falling in love with him. AU Peter/Susan
1. In The Autumn of 1998

**AN: So this is the first chapter of my brand new AU Narnia story! Yay! Anywho, the main idea of this story was requested by Mystic Lover of the Fairytale, who will also be writing a prequel to this, which I will be betaing. I'm not going to spoil too much of the plot here, kinda hoping the story and its summary will mostly just speak for itself, but basically all the non-Narnia parts are set in New York 1998, not England in the 1940s, and the main pairing of this fic is Peter/Susan. And, yes, I have taken the liberty of changing Anne Featherstone's name to "Jessica Featherstone" and Marjorie Preston's into "Ashley Preston" for the simple reason of believability due to the time-period change; I've also made both characters American and much closer to Peter's age than Lucy's. And here's a little bit of "spot the re-used OC" trivia, LOL; I re-used the surname of an OC of mine I invented back in 2008 for an old fanfic_ completely unrelated_ to this one, changing only his first name and making him and his friends American instead of British. **

_Hello. My name is Digory Kirke; _Professor _Digory Kirke. I happen to be something of an expert on inter-world travel. And, while I played a relatively small part in the story you are about to hear, I think it would be safe to say that I was somewhat central, in a less than conspicuous manner, to the tale. _

_You see, inter-world travel is a very imprecise science at times. Some people find the theories-even though, logically, they can only be the truth-all too impossible to believe. _

_Wait a moment. If you are worrying now that this is going to be a very dull story about an old man who likes to sit in his study pouring over old tomes and smoking his pipe and, in reaction, are looking for the nearest exit, calm down, it's all right; I'm not the subject of this story, I promise. _

_Nor is my other-worldly colleague, a certain Doctor Cornelius (very nice chap, by the way; you'll be hearing a bit about-and _from_-him later), the main character._

_The hero of this story is a lad who goes by the name of Peter Pevensie. (I can vouch for the fact that he's as interesting a fellow as any you're likely to meet; he is, after all, my own great, great nephew.) _

_Now, being (in his own, perhaps somewhat faulty, perception) a very ordinary sort of boy, Peter hadn't the slightest notion he was about to have the adventure of a lifetime; he never imagined that the sort of thing he read about happening to young boys in books would happen to him. _

_Much less did he think he would change the course of history in another universe for ever. _

_Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself. _

_I'd best begin in the autumn of 1998. That's when young Peter, aged thirteen at the time, was staying in my house in the New York countryside. _

_He and his mother had just moved to the United States from London England, after the unfortunate divorce, and being the youngest brother of Helen's (that's Peter's mother) grandfather, I naturally thought it best that they both come and stay with me, on good, clean property where the air was fresh and there was room enough for a young boy to run about, as opposed to some ghastly little flat in the city_.

"Morning, Mum," said Peter as he approached the head of the long, walnut table.

It was oval-shaped, so there was still a head as there would be on a square or rectangular table, though just barely, making it a little reminiscent of King Arthur's famous Round Table. Which, given the fact that Uncle Kirke's enormous house had all these empty suits of armour standing about at attention like in magician's castle, doubtless waiting for some spell to order them to life, was perhaps only fitting, in retrospect.

Helen looked up from a dense stack of paperwork crammed much too tightly onto a single blue plastic clipboard that did not at all look up to its assigned task of holding so many information sheets. "Oh, hallo, Love. All ready for school?"

Peter pulled out a chair. "I guess." He dropped his backpack on the floor and lightly kicked it under the table.

"Are you feeling all right?" Helen asked, glancing down again to adjust her _Nurse H. Pevensie_ name-tag.

"I don't like school here," he mumbled to the bowl of oatmeal that one of Uncle Kirke's maids (Ivy, Margaret, or Betty; the three housemaids were so indistinguishable from one another that Peter figured they must be sisters, but he'd never gotten any of them into a long enough conversation to ask and was at the point of giving up) had just placed in front of him.

Helen sighed. "I know it's been hard for you, Darling, being in a new country and a new school all at once, but you'll get used to it." She gave him a strained, tired smile. "It's only been one week."

He shook his head and over-turned a spoonful of oatmeal. "I doubt it. Do you know everyone here has some kind of problem with my accent?" He rolled his eyes. "They say it sounds pretentious."

"Oh, I'm sure you're not the only one those ignorant kids pick on," said Helen. "What about that Russian girl you sit with on the bus and at lunch? You told me she has a thick accent."

Peter was surprised his mother even remembered him telling her that. These days she seemed so busy with her nursing career and other things that half the time she hardly seemed to be listening to him at all. This was only the second time since they had moved to New York that she'd even still been at the house at breakfast to begin with. Usually she left for the hospital when it was still dark out.

"They don't bother her."

"Why not?"

"Well," said Peter, "three days ago, her father picked her up from school early."

"And?"

"And, let's just say he makes Goliath look like a dwarf."

"Oh, that big, eh?" She arched an eyebrow.

"And there's a pretty good chance the man brought his collection of rifles with him when he and his family moved here from Russia." Peter nudged his backpack with the toe of his left sneaker. "She would have to _pay_ those kids to steal her lunch money, and even then dashed if they'd actually go through with it."

"Well, that glass of orange juice is hovering over my papers like a ticking time bomb," said Helen, standing up; "and it's getting late, so I'd best get off to work."

Peter nodded. His oatmeal was getting cold, but he didn't care. He wasn't feeling all that hungry anyway.

"Now, try not to miss the bus and show up late for class covered in rubbish again today," she told him as an after-thought.

"But yesterday I didn't," Peter protested, as Helen disappeared through the archway leading into a vestibule with a newly installed elevator.

Actually, he'd lied to her about missing the bus and cutting through an alleyway, tripping over his own two feet, falling head-first into an open dustbin two days before. He _had_ been on the bus, and arrived at school on time. The whole showing up covered in garbage thing had been entirely the fault of bullies. But, everything as it was, he thought his mother had enough to worry about. She didn't react too much when he told her they called him names; but he knew his mother wouldn't stand for them getting physical. And, to make matters worse, he would have to admit (it would come out sooner or later) that, during the only _big_ fight he'd ever been in during his first week of school, _he_ had been the one to throw the first punch; after a boy bumped him and tried to make him apologize. She would be very disappointed in him. He hated it when his Mum was disappointed.

Peter had to walk almost five miles, to the property edge, a good ways out of sight of Uncle Kirke's house, in order to get to the school bus.

The driver, an old man with a bad hair cut, sporting clothing that was way too tight on his pudgy, almost sumo-like, body, always scowled at him as he got on.

At first, Peter had assumed the driver simply didn't like him; eventually he'd figured out that, in fact, before he moved there, the driver had never had to go that far in-country to pick up a student and was sour at having an extra ten to fifteen minutes of driving every day.

So, ignoring the customary scowl, he boarded the bus and kept his eyes open for tossed banana peels or other slippery items that might 'accidentally' be thrown in the aisle as he made his way to his seat.

Taylor Ehatwich, Peter's biggest bully and archenemy, threw a Ring Pop wrapper with a small a rock he'd picked up off the pavement near his house inside, at his head as he passed.

"Ow!" Peter grimaced, rubbing the side of his right eyebrow, where the wrapper-covered rock made contact.

The bus driver barked for him to find his seat already.

Taylor's friends, Trevor, Tommy, and Tony, seated next to-and directly behind-him, snickered into their palms.

A girl in a blue sweater three rows behind the bullies glanced up from the book she was reading and waved Peter over.

"Hey, Mashka." He sat down beside her.

"Hello, Petya." She smiled at him. "You have got a lump forming on the side of your eyebrow."

"I know," he groaned.

"Taylor again?" Reading, she hadn't seen it happen.

"Of course."

Mashka sighed sympathetically.

Aside from her thick accent, name, dark eyes, and the fact that only about half of her not directly school-related books were in English, you would never know she wasn't American. She had chocolate brown hair, an up-turned nose with seven small freckles on it, and skin so overtly Caucasian she would have given Barbie a run for her money.

Her mother had actually been from Ohio, and her father had met her as a teenager, as an exchange student from Russia. They corresponded with letters after he returned to his home country and, shortly after college, Mashka's mother just went ahead and got herself a plane ticket to Russia so they could see each other again.

And while Mashka's first language was Russian and she spoke English with that thick accent of hers, she knew English well enough not to mix up sayings or sound-accent aside-too much like a foreigner. She did occasionally slip Russian words into her otherwise completely English sentences, or call people by their names in Russian, but that was about it.

So far, Mashka was the only friend Peter had in New York. He didn't really count Mark and Noel (the goofy, unkempt boys seated at the back of the bus) even though they were harmless and even said good morning to him sometimes; they were a bit too dim-witted to be best mates with. Currently, Mark was strumming a guitar covered in _Gargoyles _stickers. His primary dilemma in life seemed to be that, evidently, nothing rhymed with the word 'jingle'. Equally simple-minded Noel was preoccupied with stamping his feet extra hard on the floor of the bus to activate his light-up sneakers.

Peter took a peek at what Mashka was reading. On the off-chance that she actually had a book written in English.

Nope. _Anna Karenina_. In the original Russian, naturally. And Peter wasn't much of a Tolstoy fan.

What kind of pathetic novel ends with a main character getting killed by a train? He thought to himself.

For a passing moment, something seemed to jab at him-like a memory of another life, or other universe-and his mind kind of went, "Hey, wait a minute..."

Shuddering involuntarily, he shrugged it off and pulled out his own current bus book. It was one he'd brought over with him from England. _Northern Lights_ by Phillip Pullman.

"Oh, Petya?"

Peter closed the book, using his index finger as a bookmark. "Yes?"

"Did you have the dream again?"

Ever since his first night at Uncle Kirke's house, Peter had been having the same dream over and over again: a castle built on a cliff by the sea...a dark, stormy night...clichéd lightning striking round the marble walls and flashes of purple over the choppy waves...

Mashka was the only person he decided he maybe trusted enough to tell, so he'd told her, thinking she wasn't likely to make fun of him. He thought of telling his mother, but it was yet another thing he didn't feel he should bother her with. Besides, he knew she would only say the old structure of Uncle Kirke's house and the suits of armour had caused it. And, while that would seem most likely to be true, Peter didn't need or want to hear it.

"Yes," said Peter. "That's just the funny thing about it. I keep having it; and it's always exactly the same."

"My papa says dreams are a way for the subconscious mind to explore fears and other repressed emotions."

"So my subconscious is afraid of a _castle_?" Peter raised an eyebrow.

"Or thunderstorms," Mashka teased, elbowing him lightly and turning her attention back to Tolstoy.

When the bus finally screeched to a stop in front of the school, Peter put his book away and prepared to get off.

Outside, on the lawn in front of Pulverulentus Siccus Junior High School, a group of cheerleaders were attempting to do a routine to Wannabe by the Spice Girls.

Commercial-worthy tragedy struck when one cheerleaders' Giga Pet went off. She stopped to feed her virtual puppy before it ran away or died, causing the girl to her left to go slamming right into her while attempting a backflip.

The captain of the cheer-squad started raging at her, waving her pompoms emphatically.

So emphatically, in fact, that she accidentally sent one sailing towards the group of kids getting off of the bus.

"Hit the deck!" cried Peter, dropping to the ground and bringing Mashka down with him as soon as they were off the bus and noticed the puffy glittery thing coming at them at alarming speed.

Taylor and most of his idiot friends ducked, too.

With the sole exception, that is, of Tony; who, in turn, got struck full-force, dead in the face, by the pompom.

"_Dude_," said Tommy, jaw agape. "Tony got pompomed!"

Trevor pointed and laughed, only to get a baton hurled at his right kneecap.

Taylor mouthed "Call me," to the head cheerleader as he tossed the pompom and baton back to her.

Peter decided to get out of the bullies' sight while they were preoccupied with being morons (the only thing they excelled at).

"Good morning, Peter," said the principal as Peter and Mashka walked inside. "Nice to see you're not covered in garbage today." He was pulling an errant sixth grader by the ear behind him, headed up the stairwell to his office to phone the troublesome kid's parents. "Mashka, tell your father we're still on for golf Saturday."

They walked down the hallway and up three cement steps to their lockers. Mashka was chattering on about something, but Peter had stopped listening, staring at a girl a few feet ahead.

Jessica Featherstone, blonde, green-eyed, and one of the few girls in Peter's grade who weren't at that stage where they were temporarily a full head taller than him, had been one of the first people he'd noticed at his new school. Of course, given how poorly his first week had gone, he still hadn't worked up the nerve to talk to her. The one conversation they'd had was in math class when she asked to see his notes and then had forgotten to return them.

Her locker was only four down from his. Yes, he'd counted, and felt unbelievably stupid.

At least nobody knew he liked her.

Mashka laughed, "Why don't you talk to her?"

Peter's face reddened. "What?" So much for nobody knowing...

"Come _awn_, Petya! Every day you stare at her, using the mirror on the inside of your locker."

"I do not!"

She folded her arms across her chest. "_Sure_."

"She doesn't like me," he said quickly, shaking his head. "I can tell."

"Oh, so you are psychic now!" Mashka pouted faux-dramatically. "Where were you when I put my whole month's allowance on the dapple-gray horse to win?"

"Mashka..."

"_Say_ something to her, Petya!"

"Like what?"

"Like ask her for your notes back," she suggested.

"I can't do that!" he gasped. "She'll think I'm some kind of pretentious grade-grubber. Enough people here already assume that based on the poor reason of my being British."

"Then ask her out!"

"What? No way!" He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Jessica wasn't listening.

She wasn't; she was too busying using Ashley Preston, one of the cheerleaders involved (by association, not directly) in the Giga Pet/flying pompom incident, as a pack-mule to hold/carry her books, pencil boxes, and Lisa Frank folders.

When Jessica decided her best friend for the time being was loaded down with about as many random school supplies as she could physically hang onto for any extended period of time, she noticed that oddball Russian girl repeatedly nudging the new British kid towards them.

"Will you stop shoving!" Peter exclaimed over his shoulder. "All_ right_. I'll talk to her. Don't get your knickers in a twist, yeah?"

Jessica fiddled impatiently with the candy necklace she was wearing. It seemed as if the British kid wanted to talk to her. _Whatever_, but she hated being kept waiting. Standing around in the drafty hallway currently void of most of the cool people was so unspeakably _dull_.

"Hi, uh, Jessica," Peter stammered. "We're in the same math class."

"Uh-huh," she said, letting go of her candy necklace and examining her nail-beds with undue fascination.

"Well, I was wondering..." He glanced over his shoulder at Mashka who was making a 'so-so' motion with her hand to indicate how well he was doing. Turning back to Jessica, he resumed. "...Uh, wondering...would you be, I don't know, interested in maybe going to a movie or out for pizza or something?" In response to Jessica's unmoved expression, he added, perhaps needlessly, "With me, I mean?"

"You're asking me out?" Jessica crinkled her nose. "That's cute."

Ashley, ever the one to suck up, made a little, "Aww," noise.

"Shut up, Ashley," Jessica said off-handedly.

"Okay." Ashley's jaw shut tight with an almost audible click.

"So..." Peter said.

"Listen, that's really sweet and everything," simpered Jessica, patronizingly, "but I don't think you're my type."

Peter looked down at his feet. "All right, then. Fair enough."

Mashka was stunned. She had fully expected Jessica Featherstone to say yes, even if she _was_ a bit stuck up and bossy. Peter wasn't bad-looking; and considering Jessica was so puny that most of the boys in their grade looked like beanpoles standing next to her, Mashka didn't see how she could afford to be so choosy.

"Sorry," she mouthed.

He shrugged like it didn't really bother him, but she could tell it did.

And it certainly didn't bother him any_ less _when, not even a minute after Jessica turned him down, Taylor decided to grace them with his presence and show his macho-manliness by shoving Peter into his own locker and snapping the combination lock down so he couldn't get out, then proceeded to ask Jessica if she wanted to grab a burger after school.

She said yes, and Peter felt as miserable as he imagined the dying blue bottle in the hotel he and his mother had stayed about a week at back in London before leaving for America felt when he stepped on it by accident. With one major exception. At least the fly was _out_ of its misery. He still had to go to school at Pulverulentus Siccus Junior High for at least another year, and after that, High School, which didn't exactly seem bright with promise, either.

He was starting to wonder if anything _good _was ever going to happen to him. If moving to a new country was supposed to be his great adventure, leading up to his fate or destiny or whatever, he was hoping for a bit more. At this rate, the most thrilling thing likely to happen in his life was a fire drill in fourth period. Or, if he was _really_ lucky, something other than dry turkey, string-beans, and a square of stale carrot cake offered to him in the cafeteria.

"Oy, Petya!" Mashka knocked on the opposite side of his locker. "That jerk Taylor finally left. The bell just rang. Tell me your combination so I can get you out."

"Seven, seven, three, seven, round to zero, five," he told her.

"Seven, three?" He could hear the combination lock turning the wrong way.

"No, Seven, Seven, three!"

"That is what I just said, no?"

"That's two sevens!"

"There _is_ no eleven!" Mashka exclaimed. "Numbers one through ten only."

"_Seven_!"

"Oh, _seven_." She sighed and turned the lock the other way. "Why didn't you say so?"

Peter lightly banged his forehead against the metal inside of the locker.

The really sad part was that, so far, this was turning out to be a comparatively _good_ day. He was going to be late for class again, but at least his locker wasn't full of stinky rubbish like the dustbin had been; that much was a fairly large step up.

Later, in History, the teacher was telling them about William the Conqueror and how it is believed he bullied Matilda of Flanders into marrying him via pulling her by her braids.

Peter fought against the urge to suck his teeth as he took notes. This was the first thing in History class since moving to this blasted country that was _not _about the pilgrims, or else George Washington, or else the Boston Tea Party (by Jove was that one _loads_ of fun...), and all he found he could really take away from it was that, even way back then, posh girls had a preference for jerks.

How lovely.

**AN: *-Pleaseth to be Reviewing-* **


	2. The Dream Again

**AN: Mystic Lover of the Fairytale's prequel to this is now up. Look for it under the title, "Before the adventure". If you have trouble finding it, check my favorite stories on my profile, it's in there. **

"Hey, that's mine!" Peter protested as his lunch-a slice of defrosted pepperoni pizza-disappeared down Taylor Ehatwich's gullet in under two minutes. He would have called Taylor a pig, but he didn't want to get into another fight-he just wanted to be left alone. And, besides, in all honesty, Taylor was more like a duck or snake or something, the way he was swallowing that slice whole; pigs, at least, tended to actually_ chew_ their food.

He should have_ known_ things were going too smoothly since the locker incident, and that there actually still being pizza left during the seventh-grade lunch period (usually the eighth graders ate it all, since their lunch period was first) was too good not to come with a catch.

"Correction," said Taylor. "It_ was _yours."

Mashka cut her slice of pizza in half with a plastic knife, then slid one of the halves onto Peter's empty tray.

"Thanks," Peter sighed gratefully.

"Ow!" cried Mashka as something knocked her down from the wooden seat attached to the table and onto the floor.

"Sorry, Mooshca!" a cheerleader cradling a set of bushy, fire-red pompoms, now sitting in her seat, called down to her. "I didn't see you there."

"My name is _Mashka_," she growl-corrected, still sprawled out on the cafeteria tile.

"Whatever. Talk to the hand." The cheerleader held up her palm, flipped her hair, and turned to Peter. "So, word on the street is you're good at math."

"I'm all right," said Peter, modestly.

"Well, I'm actually in need of a tutor." She smiled helplessly. "Otherwise, I'm going to be held back this year and, you know, I would just hate for that to happen."

"Yes," Peter agreed, "that, um, would be bad."

She causally stretched her arm out on the table, pushing Peter's tray over towards Tony and Tommy. By the time Peter realized what was happening, Tommy had slurped up the last drop in his milk cartoon and the crust was all that was left of the half-slice of pizza Mashka had given him.

"You know what?" the cheerleader stood up, smoothing her skirt. "I don't need you to tutor me after all. I'll just borrow your notes off of Jessica Featherstone; she mentioned you let her keep them. Save us both a lot of time."

"Oy!" said Mashka, standing up. "I wish _she'd _throw herself under a train."

"Are you all right?" Peter felt bad about not saying anything when the cheerleader pushed her off her seat. He had just been rather flattered, especially after what happened with Jessica Featherstone earlier, that a popular girl was talking to him in the first place.

"Fine," Mashka told him. "But tomorrow maybe we should eat lunch outside."

"Or in the library," Peter suggested.

"I would even take the smelly gym over this," she stated, furrowing her brow.

"You know," he whispered in Mashka's ear, "sometimes I think Taylor just sits at home, stewing, eating dry Fruit Loops out of the box, dreaming up ways to torment me."

"No," Mashka whisper-laughed. "That is giving him way too much credit. It would require him to _think_ in the first place."

"Ah," sighed Peter. "Well, that's true."

The rest of the day went by without too much worth mentioning. Indeed, that is not to say that Peter was not bothered by Taylor and his friends during the course of the two periods after lunch, it's merely to state that while further small annoyances are implied, nothing major happened. And if a marker-top or two glanced off the back of his head right before the bell signaling the end of the school day rung, Peter did his best to act indifferent. He decided, however, that whoever came up with the theory that bullies do not pick on you if you don't react had never actually experienced the full irritation of an unrelenting bully. In short, either they'd had it too easy, or else their poorly-conceived school-ground philosophy was just plain _rubbish_.

When the bus driver stopped at the edge of Professor Kirke's property and grumpily barked, "Pevensie, off!", Peter slung his backpack over his shoulder, waved goodbye to Mashka, and got off the steps as quickly as possible.

He'd learned pretty quickly during his first week that this was the course of wisdom, for, once, when he hadn't gotten off quite fast enough, the bus had started moving with him still on the last step.

Unfortunately, no sooner had he gotten off the bus on this day than the doors snapped shut and the driver, putting pedal to the metal as he made a U-turn, drove right through a very muddy puddle on the dirt road.

And Peter was splattered. His clothing and backpack were soaked with cold, dirty water; a mud clod slid down the side of his chin.

"Great," he muttered.

A five mile walk on a nippy autumn afternoon is a splendid thing when you've been relaxing inside drinking hot apple cider and reading the collective works of William Shakespeare or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle while sitting in a cushy upholstered chair, looking out at the coloured leaves through a window all morning. It is not so splendid, though, when you've been inside a building learning dreadfully dull lessons and being tormented by your peers, daring to look out the window at the clear blue sky and the single bare tree branch visible from the angle your desk is positioned in only when your teacher is being momentarily inattentive, and all you want is to be inside already, warm and cozy, eating a big bowl of macaroni and cheese while watching_ Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction_ on the telly.

Add 'soaking wet and mud-splattered' to the latter scenario, and it's easy as anything to understand why Peter did not at all enjoy his five mile trek to Uncle Kirke's house.

He was shivering and sneezing as he came up the path.

A shrewd-looking woman, tall and thin, with a no-nonsense face one absolutely _had_ to mind their P's and Q's when confronted with, her brownish-gray hair piled atop her head, met him at the door.

Peter winced. "Mrs. Macready?"

"I'm afraid so," she said, taking in the state of him, all wet and filthy as he was. She had been hoping her employer's nephew would at least be tidy (he was, after all, thirteen, not _three_), but, as with everything else in her job description, she was willing to take it in stride.

This was the first time Peter had met the housekeeper. She had been on vacation when he and his mother arrived and Uncle Kirke personally showed them about the main grounds, the dog kennels, the front-wing antechambers, and the upstairs rooms that would be for their personal uses. He'd been told Mrs. Macready would come back soon, and his mother had told him to mind her when she did, but never _when_. So, naturally, he was not expecting her.

Really, she couldn't have decided to come back at a worse moment. The last thing in the world he wanted to do after a long day was explain himself-and his not quite up to par appearance-to this woman, who he knew from first glance, while decent enough, would _not _understand.

"Is this it, then?" she asked, gingerly taking his backpack from his shoulder. "Haven't you brought anything else?"

"No, ma'am," Peter replied softly. "It's just me."

"Small favors." She opened the door a little wider so he could come inside.

Although he felt like collapsing in a chair, he knew the Macready would have none of it; he would have to take a bath before he sat on anything, even the floor.

To the maid (Ivy, he thought, though really it might have been Betty) who took his shoes and coat, Mrs. Macready whispered, loudly, "Make sure he's properly washed." And, into the arms of the maid who showed up silently at her elbow less than a minute later (Margaret), she dumped Peter's backpack. "See if it can be cleaned. If not, take everything out of it and burn it."

Margaret blinked. "Begging your pardon, Ma'am, but if I burn everything in the backpack, how does that...?"

"No, Margaret, burn the _backpack_ if it cannot be cleaned."

"Oh. Sorry, Ma'am."

After bathing, Peter went to the only pantry in the house he knew how to locate without getting too lost in the process, and, standing on a chair in his socks, opened one of the top cabinets.

"Boy, what are you doing?"

He whirled round, nearly falling off the chair, thankfully regaining his balance at the last minute.

Mrs. Macready stood there, frowning uncertainly.

"I'm hungry," Peter commented, reaching up and grabbing a box of Pop Tarts before lowering himself and scooting off the chair.

"What are those?" Her nose wrinkled disdainfully.

"They're Pop Tarts," said Peter. "I like them."

"Do you need to cook them? Because I don't allow children to play with ovens in any house _I'm_ employed in."

"No, you just put them in the toaster."

She mumbled something and coughed to clear her throat, grudgingly satisfied with that answer.

While two Pop Tarts were warming in the toaster, Peter proceeded to eat about four of them straight out of the box.

"Don't they feed you at school?" sniffed Mrs. Macready, her eyes glinting warily.

Peter shrugged. He thought it safe to assume this was not the sort of woman he should speak to with his mouth full, even if she _had_ asked him a direct question.

"Well," she said at last, "take the rest of the popping-tarts to your designated rooms, would you? It's the job of the servants to take care of the kitchen. It is their function. One most never deprive people of their function. And I won't have you ruining chairs and climbing about like a monkey. Rules must be strictly enforced."

Peter nodded and tore a paper towel off of the roll hanging from a porcelain pole over the large, well-polished brass sink.

"I'll have no sliding on the banisters, no improper use of the dumbwaiter, no joyrides in the elevator, no touching of the historical artifacts... If you cannot tell if an item is historical, note if it looks heavy-if it does, then it's expensive, so leave it alone. Do_ not_ pick it up to test this.

"Also, no more coming inside by the front door dripping. If you _must _wander into the house covered in goodness only knows what, please use the servants' entrance, _but _mind you don't bother or get in the way of the servants while you're at it and get back to your own part of the house as speedily as possible."

The toaster dinged. Peter grabbed the two hot Pop Tarts, wincing from the heat and dropping them quickly into the paper towel.

"And above all, I hope you understand that there shall be no disturbing of the Professor. Your great, great uncle is not accustomed to having children in this house, and I hope you will be an amenable guest." She sucked in a sharp breath of air. "And, yes, that means no bringing hooligans from your school over here to play with."

As if any of the 'hooligans' liked him well enough to visit! As if he liked any of _them_! Although, sadly, he supposed that ruled out Mashka (regardless of the fact that he didn't think she truly qualified as a proper 'hooligan'), which was too bad, since he was going to ask if he could invite her sometime. But his mother was always busy, and now he was forbidden to bother his uncle, who he saw rarely enough as it was.

Professor Kirke was always home-almost never away from the house or its grounds longer than an hour or two at most-but since he was continuously shut up in one of his many studies, his favorite of which was on the third floor in the north wing (Peter gathered this because he had seen a light on and a shadow move behind that door more often than any of the others he passed), he might as well not have been there for all the good it did his great, great nephew.

Taking the warm, paper towel covered Pop Tarts in hand, Peter walked out of the pantry and took the stairs to his sitting room. The elevator would have been quicker, but he didn't want the Macready to think he was 'joy riding'. He missed the days when it was only Mum in charge of telling him what to do. She could be very 'for your own good' bossy, as any decent mother will be from time to time, but there was a warmth about her orders that those of a stern, impatient housekeeper would always lack.

The sitting room was fair-sized, bigger than his bedroom and that of his parents' back in England combined. There were several dark-coloured couches and a large bay window, under which there was located a thin-cushioned seat that lifted up like the lid of a trunk. A table with a wooden chess set always perfectly arranged on it (twice, Peter had purposefully misplaced pieces on the board, on his way out of the room, just to see what would happen, but evidently the maids were diligent and always fixed it before he returned) stood on a soft green-and-brown carpet in front of the largest of the couches.

As this _was _1998, there was, of course, a television, but one could not say it was exactly a model 'of it's time'. It looked, to be frank, as much like a piece of furniture as everything else in the room; the screen was cased in wood and there was no remote; one had to stand up and change the channel manually. And sometimes the colour would be off (too green, usually) and he would have to turn a set of little knobs till the colours looked right again. Peter didn't mind that; it gave him something to do.

At some point, Peter must have nodded off, slumped in a curled-over position with his back pressed against the front of the arm on the couch, for he found himself thrust into the dream again; the one about the castle by the sea.

This time, however, it was different. There was still the cliff, the castle, and the lightning as there had been every night he'd dreamed it, but instead of staying outside of the castle, as usual, his vision seemed to zoom into a double window with crisscrossed bars on it, showing him the interior of the castle.

The corridor was dark.

So dark, in fact, it would have been pitch-black if it were not for the few silver oil lanterns swinging from the ceiling and for the tall golden candlesticks stationed at various intervals, mainly under arches and in nooks, and in corners created by the placement of tall marble pillars.

A pair of very tiny feet clad in soft, jeweled satin slippers, studded round the sides with tiny glass beads, ran down this dark corridor as fast as the small legs (hidden under overly-long skirts of velvet and brocade) they were attached to would take them.

"Oh, dear Aslan, _no_!" cried a little girl's voice, as she ran harder still.

The glass beads on her slippers clinked sharply against the floor. There must have been gold or silver chains attached to her clothing, for they, too, clinked together, almost musically.

Throwing open a door, the little girl, panting madly, heart beating like a drum, all but threw herself at what appeared to be a cradle consisting entirely of silver filigree with a cream-coloured silk canopy draped over it.

Peter caught a proper glimpse of the girl, who was very tiny, perhaps five years old, lily-white in complexion, and had long black hair that ended almost at her clinking slipper-clad feet.

The little girl pulled back the canopy and, looking down, let out a sigh of intense relief.

Inside the cradle, laid out side by side, were two babies. Not even a year old, by the looks of them. But they appeared reasonably healthy, except that the baby on the left had an amazing set of lungs, enabling it to scream and cry unceasingly, and the-much quieter-baby on the right seemed distressed by the other baby's screaming and, in reaction, whimpered constantly.

"Shh..." the little girl cooed down to them. "It's all right, then." She bent down, as if to pick up the whimpering baby on the right, but a shadow glided over her, and, startled, she pulled herself back up.

A swordsman stood there, his drawn blade glinting in the filmy, cloud-obscured, moonlight seeping in from the window behind him.

_Both_ babies were howling freely now.

The little girl firmly planted herself in front of the cradle, her little hands behind her, holding onto the silver filigree, her fingers intertwined with and looped through the delicate carvings, her knuckles bloodless and stretched far apart from how hard she was holding on.

"You should not have come," said the swordsman, his tone gruff but not wholly unkind.

"Leave them!" the little girl commanded.

For a child of five, Peter had to admit her voice had power. Here was a girl that, whatever else she lacked in, had no problem giving orders.

"Princess," began the man.

"I'm your _queen_ now," snapped the little girl, her blue eyes lifting to look the swordsman directly in the face, flashing; "not your _princess_. And I said to spare them. Touch either of them, and I will see you all hanged." She lisped a little on the word 'see' and hiccuped on 'either', but aside from that she sounded far older than her five-year-stature and tiny feet suggested she could.

The other swordsmen, invisible in the lightless corners, must have surrendered along with the only visible swordsman, the one nearest the silver cradle.

Armour banged together as they walked out of the room (well, nursery, perhaps). A clap of thunder droned out the sound of their swords being sheathed.

The little girl let go of the cradle and bent down over it again, to examine the babies. She stroked their cheeks and whispered to them.

Looking both ways, she climbed into the cradle with them. She was small-boned and fit all right, even if it was a bit snug with the three of them. She slept with the babies till the storm ended and a pale, gray morning laced with a streak of scarlet on the eastern horizon over the green-waved sea dawned.

For their comfort and reassurance; but also for hers.

Peter's eyes snapped open.

He was standing upright in a part of his uncle's house he had never been in before.

His hand was on the wood of a spare room door.

Had he been sleepwalking? he wondered, crinkling his forehead in confusion. He had never walked anywhere in his sleep before. When he was little, his mother told him he had a habit of _talking_ in his sleep, only he'd never got up in a subconscious state and tried to _go_ anywhere.

And what was the hour? How long had he been asleep? It couldn't have been later than four or five in the afternoon/early evening when he conked out in front of the telly...

Somewhere in the distance, a grandfather clock went off, striking twelve.

_Midnight_.

Could he have really been asleep for eight or nine hours? The bad day at school must have worn him out even more than he realized.

Well, there was nothing else for it. He had to find his way back to his own sitting room and bedroom. And the good lord only knew how long that might take, this part of the house being wholly unfamiliar to him.

He turned and took a step, tripping over something heavy, velvety, and warm, nearly toppling over.

The thing let out a most unpleasant sound of one being under attack, then, no longer threatened, exactly, just merely _annoyed_, hissed at him.

It was a cat.

A very big cat, almost up to Peter's knee if it sat up. Wide, but more muscular than fat. Short-haired and completely black. It was graced with enormous greenish-yellow eyes that sort of glowed, like an owl's in a tree, guarding its territory, ever on the watch for a passing rodent.

With the mood this cat seemed to be in, mostly because it had been tripped over, Peter was quite fortunate that he was-very visibly-not a mouse or squirrel or any other small thing the cat could teach a lesson to. Indeed, the cat seemed, upon realizing Peter was a big creature-and a human, at that-to want nothing more than to sniff his hand and see if he was agreeable.

Apparently finding him to be so, the cat meowed and rubbed the side of its face against the now kneeling thirteen-year-old boy's fingertips. It then proceeded to circle him a few times, rubbing against his back and his legs.

I didn't know Uncle Kirke had a cat, Peter thought to himself, reaching over to scratch the little black beast behind the ears by way of apology.

His friend Lola, back in England...she'd had a cat, and it always found humans at fault, whatever went amiss (as all respectable cats are wont to do), so he knew full well there was no use in explaining to the creature that it had been in the way, directly under-foot, and no _wonder_ it was tripped over. Cats were like customers; they were _always_ right.

The hallway light came on, and Peter knew he was in trouble the moment he saw the Macready standing there.

The cat had fled; it clearly did not care for Mrs. Macready.

Peter was on his own.

If the housekeeper was less than understanding-looking in her daytime clothing, the woman appeared even _more_ sour and disagreeable in her nightgown and rose-coloured woolen robe.

"You, young man," she snapped, tying her robe more securely around her, "are one shenanigan shy of sleeping in the stables!"

Peter didn't think that particularly fair. After all, aside from getting a box of Pop Tarts in his sock feet and, before that, coming home wet (which he couldn't help), he hadn't been up to any 'shenanigans'. How many kids would have come home from school and quietly remained out of the way for hours on end?

But he had no time to try and voice this, or even to quietly stew over how unfair it was, because the professor himself appeared, also in his nightclothes.

"Professor," said the housekeeper apologetically. "I'm sorry. I told him you were _not_ to be disturbed."

"That's all right, Mrs. Macready, I'm sure there's a logical explanation." He smiled kindly at Peter. "But, first of all, I think we could do with a nice spot of tea. And do turn up the heat. It's cold tonight, and if I'm to have a talk with my nephew here, there's no need for it to be conducted in the midst of shivering fits."

A _talk_, thought Peter, _great_. He was going to be scolded, no doubt.

Not that his Uncle Kirke had ever really told him off before (he saw too little of him for that), but there was always a first time.

"You may bring us that tea in my study," Professor Kirke ordered.

Mrs. Macready nodded, knowing automatically which study he meant.

Peter had an inkling, too.

**AN: Please review.**


	3. Quantum Entanglement

"You seem to have upset the delicate internal balance of my housekeeper," said Professor Kirke, seated comfortably behind his mahogany desk, as he reached for a silver chewing-tobacco canister shaped to look like a Washington apple.

Peter, standing in front of the desk, feeling nervous, hurriedly replied, "I'm very sorry, Sir, it won't happen again," and took a few steps backward, edging so as to generally aim for the door, hoping his uncle would let him go.

"Ah." He smiled, gesturing at the evergreen couches to the left of his desk. "Please, have a seat."

Rats. He wasn't getting off so easily. What could he say? He could promise it wouldn't happen again; no, wait, he'd just done that. Well, what else could his uncle want from him, if not an apology?

The professor rose from his desk and made his way over to the couches himself, easing down into the seat across from where Peter was, in theory, 'making himself comfortable' but in reality was feeling quite as uncomfortable as he'd ever been in his life.

"Tell me," said his uncle, "what were you doing outside of the spare room so late?" He didn't sound angry or accusing, or even concerned; he seemed genuinely curious.

Peter had not anticipated this. "Uh, I... I don't know. I think I was sleepwalking."

"What were you dreaming?"

"I don't remember," he lied.

His uncle arched a brow.

That was all it took; his cheeks reddened, ashamed. "A castle," he murmured. "And there was this little girl-she was...running, really fast-and a pram-no, _cradle_-made of silver...and shadows. A storm...it... I... I'm sorry, it's silly." He felt embarrassed, blithering in front of his educated, grown-up, obviously very proper, great, great uncle as he was.

But the man simply nodded, lightly and discreetly spat out a bit of tobacco into a decorative-looking spittoon on his right, and politely raised both eyebrows expectantly, like he was saying, "Oh, do go on."

Peter felt his eyes narrow. Was he being made fun of? There were no tell-tale signs of an adult speaking to a small child for stupid amusement, mockingly, as if it could only be expected of a thirteen-year-old to sound babyish or idiotic. Yet, how could Uncle Kirke take everything he was saying so...so...well, _seriously_?

The door to the study was slightly ajar still, and the black cat who had abandoned Peter to Mrs. Macready earlier, stalked in, gliding over, cool and smooth as an October evening's shadow, leaping up to sit beside the professor.

Rather than curl up beside him, however, the cat let itself be scratched twice, in a very dignified manner, then stood, proud, fine, and still as a statue-save for its flicking ebony tail-on the arm of the couch.

Peter blinked at the cat, his attention completely-and, in his own mind, _thankfully_-diverted.

"That's Quantum," said the professor, off-handedly.

"You have a cat named _Quantum_?" Peter choked back a laugh.

"Yes, yes." He waved it off. "Please, continue."

"Well, that's it, sir." Peter shrugged. "Honest."

"What was it like?"

"Like?" He crinkled his forehead and sat up a little straighter. "Like being lost, I guess. This _is_ a big house and I didn't know where..."

"No, no, not that." The professor sighed, slightly irritated. "The castle, dear boy, the _castle_."

"By the sea," he said. "Grand, I suppose."

His uncle did not look particularly satisfied by that answer. "Tell me this, then: did it have an other-worldly appearance?"

"How do you mean?"

"Did it appear like one of our castles, from a past century in our world, or did it seem only like something resembling that? Different, though."

"I...don't know..." Peter stammered. "I think-I don't_ know_, it was dark-different. Like something from history, but not. More like something out of a fantasy novel."

The professor's slow grin widened. "Extraordinary."

"Uncle Kirke," he said carefully, "it was only a dream."

"Ah, _was_ it?" The old man's face beamed presently. "I'm not so sure."

"Of course it was." Did his uncle know that there were medicines one could take to ease these kind of mad delusions? Except, he didn't really _sound _like a madman...

"You understood the joke in naming my cat," said the professor, "you must like science."

Peter nodded. "Well enough."

"Yes, well, then you've heard-no doubt-about other worlds and parallel universes, I trust?"

"You mean the other worlds theory?"

Professor Kirke scowled. "It's not a _theory_. It is the _truth_." He muttered something peevish under his breath, then, louder, added, "What _do_ they teach at schools these days?"

So Uncle Kirke believed in the parallel-worlds theory, that every choice made, every possible outcome, every possible existence was manifest in an alternate timeline. That wasn't _too_ weird. For a free-thinking professor it was _maybe_ a little eccentric at best. So he wasn't out of his mind. Except, of course, for thinking Peter's dream was something _from_ one of those alternate timelines. That was quite impossible. Because scientific theory held, quite plainly, that-even if there were other worlds-you couldn't get to them. To do that, to move into another universe-presumably the world next door, so to speak-a person would have to travel sideways, moving outside of the third dimension. No one could physically do that. So world-hopping was humanly O-U-T.

"I don't think, Uncle, even if there _are_ other worlds created whenever somebody somewhere in our world makes a choice," Peter said, as politely as possible, "that we can dream about them. We can't even _see _them. To us, in our world, they aren't even real."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, sir, when things are real, they're there all the time."

"Of course they are," he agreed. "Who ever said they weren't? Just because you can't always see a thing doesn't mean it's not always right there all the same."

Isn't that another scientific theory?" Peter asked. "That nothing exists till we look at it?"

"Now that_ is _a theory," he snorted. "And completely wrong." He took a swig of tea, a cup and saucer currently balanced on his right knee. A twisted yellow-and-green ring on the old man's pinky finger clinked lightly against the porcelain. "_Everything_ is real. Every reality has its place, its universe, and its time.

"In our world, Leonardo da Vinci was a painter. Perhaps, in another, he became a lawyer. Simply never got inspired to paint in the first place in that universe. Never had a visit from his muse. That world, you might think, aside from the effect on art-lovers, might not be too different from ours. But the smallest thing can have an impact on the world's history. Maybe, let's suppose, in that other world, he was a very _good_ lawyer and sent somebody to prison-or else released them, changing the outcome of that case, for better or for worse, that world is, you would admit, different from ours."

Peter's head spun. What did this have to do with anything? It was interesting, certainly, but... Oh, a thought had hit him! What if, in another world, his parents had never split-up? Would that other world be good or bad? _That_ version of Peter would have gotten to stay in England with his friends-with Lola, Mark, and Ben-and things would have stayed the same as they'd always been... But _that_ Peter would have never met Mashka._ That_ Peter wouldn't be having this conversation with his uncle right now...

What if, like Da Vinci being a painter instead of a lawyer, there was a reason he was_ here_ in this world?

No, there couldn't be.

It was all serendipity.

He wasn't important enough, or talented, or _anything_, really.

He was just Peter Pevensie.

"And persons from other realities," the professor went on, "can visit each other. It's just a matter of the lay-out of worlds. See, a world too close in similarity and style and outcomes to the world the person trying to travel lives in would make it hard. That would be tough, to find a way into a world so tightly compacted over ours. A vastly different one, or one just different enough, can be crossed over into under the right circumstances. Lawyer da Vinci might have difficulty getting into our world where his alternate painter-self lives; but a man related to-or descended from-another alternate Da Vinci, see now, _he_ could, if things were aligned right, stumble upon our world, be it by chance or by design."

Peter supposed that ruled-out his ever reaching the alternate universe where his parents worked things out and the three of them stayed in England. "Uncle, how do you know all this?"

"I'm a science and history professor," he said simply, "and I've learned to pay attention to things others might ignore. I'm quite alert to the comings and goings of other-worldly visitors. You know, there was a time when our world held more of a fascination for such visitors. Many of them were even put into our art."

"Like who?" Peter blurted.

"Well, the Mona Lisa comes to mind," he stated. "And it was this world she visited. And, luckily, this world in which Leonardo was a painter."

"Which explains why you use him for your example."

"It's a striking one," the professor said. "It gets the point across beautifully. But, you know, in an alternate timeline, perhaps I haven't used him for my example at all. Perhaps I used Sherlock Holmes."

"But there wasn't a real Sherlock Holmes," said Peter. "He's a fictional character."

"Yes," the professor said. "In this world he is. How do we know he wasn't real in another?"

"Wow." Peter inhaled deeply. "You really believe all this, don't you?" He exhaled and stared at his Uncle Kirke in amazement. "That there could be that many other worlds, all over the place, just round the corner-like _that_!"

"Nothing is more probable."

If it were true, Peter thought, unable to help feeling a _little_ excited, a few butterflies fluttering in his stomach at the possibility, anything-any_one_-could be real _somewhere_! There might, as the professor said, be a non-fictional Sherlock Holmes in another world; and there might be a real Earnshaw family living inside a real Wuthering Heights, or a real House Stark at a real Winterfell, or a real Lord Asriel and Marisa Coulter...

These possibilities were almost too much. Too _great_.

"But, Uncle..."

"What is it?"

"How_ do _they travel out of their own world into ours?"

"By magic."

Peter folded his arms across his chest and looked testily into the professor's face, trying-and failing-to read the expression he found there. "Magic? Come on, _really_? You're teasing me, yeah?"

"How can you be thirteen, clearly intelligent," mulled the professor, clucking his tongue, "and not know that science is nothing more than explainable magic?" He looked to his cat. "In the olden days, they saw magic everywhere-even in creatures like Quantum here. But once things were explained, magic almost ceased to be what it really was. Magic was chased away by theories."

Quantum, eerily, almost as if on cue, purred melodiously.

Peter shivered and rung his hands together in his lap.

Uncle Kirke stood up, groaning lightly, placing his teacup and saucer down on a small cherry-wood end-table as he rose. "You have, I trust, learned something about Entanglement?"

Peter shook his head.

"Oh, schools today!" The old man rolled his eyes and then closed them, as if frustrated. "Never-mind, Peter, it isn't your fault that times change, anymore than a freak storm in the Appalachian mountains could be your fault. Regardless, Entanglement is the 'explainable magic' in question, a scientific truth; its law goes by the rule that once two things have interacted they are always aware of each other, no matter how far apart. They are twisted together; locked into each other so tightly that even the separation of timelines, alternate universes, galaxies, anything you can put between them-any distance whatever-cannot stop them from being entangled. If one world has become, although distant enough to be its completely separate reality, entangled with another, why, then something will always be drawing them over each other, like a magnet. If something goes amiss, akin to the other world being, let us say, poked in the eyeball, it would be the world it is entangled with that flinches."

Peter grinned cheekily. "Worlds have eyeballs?"

"Focus,_ please_."

"Sorry, Uncle."

The professor absently patted Quantum on the head. (Well, really, it was more like his hand thoughtlessly went boom, boom, boom on the cat, who in turn, insulted, reached up to swat him, only missing his owner's hand narrowly because he had walked across to his desk to get some more tobacco.)

"I have good reason to believe, Peter, that our world," the professor explained, his voice almost wistful, "is in deep Entanglement with another. I have a friend of sorts, from that other world, who, in a parallel manner of some kind, leaves me messages that can be read in this one."

Peter couldn't help it, he said, "You know, Uncle Kirke, maybe you haven't been sleeping enough lately." Too many late nights shut up in his study, reading up on Greek and Egyptian mythology must have pushed the poor old fellow over the edge a bit. "There's proof that sleep deprivation can-"

"Oh, do be quiet and listen." The professor did not seem at all interested in discussing the effects of sleep deprivation, an issue all brilliant minds are wont-and prefer-to ignore whenever they can get away with it. "Your dream could be the start of an entanglement! Some part of another world is trying to intertwine itself with _you_."

"No..." Peter shook his head. "That's not..."

"All right, you leave me no choice." The professor walked over to his desk, moved a few manilla papers off of something bound in dark brown leather, and brought the rectangular object over to him. "Open it."

Peter opened the book, lightly unlooping the leather strap from the brass clasp that held it closed.

Professor Kirke waited with bated breath.

Inside of the book, there appeared to be nothing but questions the professor himself had written. Things like, "Who are you?" and "What do you want?" and "Where are you from?", eventually becoming friendlier questions, such as, "How are you today?" and "Any news?" and "What is it you're looking for? How is the weather there, by the way?" Below each question, was a space; a _blank _space. Peter could see nothing there, but going by the questions written by the professor, it was as if he was carrying on a conversation with something. Or _thought_ he was, anyway.

"What _is_ this?" Peter gave up trying to guess.

"My conversation with an other worldly colleague. I believe the man in question is a professor of sorts, much like myself."

"But it's all _your _writing."

"You mean you can't see the responses?"

"I'm not going to see what isn't there, Uncle Kirke." The spaces under his great, great uncle's writing were _blank_! What did he _expect_?

"Oh, it's there," the professor insisted. "Your entanglement with that world must not be strong enough to enable you to see everything-that is, _yet_."

"This is too bizarre," Peter told him.

"Peter, if my suspicions are correct, there may be a major reason you are being called upon...dreaming, seeing things and not seeing things..." He bent down to his great, great nephew's level. "Don't you see it? You're being asked to change a world."

"A _book_, Uncle," he said softly, looking down and closing the leather book he still held in his hands. "I just see a book."

**AN: Peter gets into Narnia, next chapter! In the meantime, please review. **


	4. Quantum Entanglement, In Action

To say it was raining cats and dogs outside would have been akin to saying the flood of Noah's day was just a small water problem due to backed-up sewage systems. The rainfall that gloomy Saturday morning was so thick that, looking out the window of his sitting room, Peter couldn't even see through it. The endless showers blocked the view of the countryside, the trees, the sky...pretty much _everything_, really.

While it was true that it was still, for the most part, better than being at school, Peter still found himself bored, lonely, and quite irritable.

There was nobody to talk to. His mother was at work, the New York world evidently still needing all their nurses on duty, even if it was raining, and _Saturday_, and the nurse in question was a mum whose son missed her. The Macready was busy, for which he could only be thankful, considering every other sentence that came out of the housekeeper's mouth began with the words 'no' or 'don't'.

And the professor?

Gosh, Peter hadn't even _seen _Uncle Kirke since he'd given him that borderline creepy lecture on alternate universes and entanglements. He wasn't present for meals and he must not have been interested in the dogs that week, for even when Peter causally stood not far off from the kennels-for reasons he wasn't sure of, only that he felt oddly as if he were the last person on the face of the earth and wanted to see _somebody_, not entirely caring _who_-there wasn't a glimpse to be caught of the old man. Only one of the maids (possibly Betty), bringing out some bowls of dry food for the baying, wet-nosed creatures.

In addition, the professor must have decided to switch over from his usual study for the week, because Peter no longer saw shadows or lights on when he stood outside of the door.

It got to the point where Peter began to seek out Quantum. Only, the black cat must have been in the same part of the house as its reclusive owner, because its whereabouts were equally elusive.

Then, late Friday night, Peter had woken up thirsty, wanting a drink of water, unexpectedly feeling a weight on his chest.

A weight that was black and made a gurgling sort of growl when he tried to push it off.

The cat accompanied him down to the pantry, sitting on the island in the middle of the room, this constant booming purr rumbling from it, while he stood on the tips of his toes to grab a glass, filling it with water from the sink.

The water there was good, he knew, because Mum had mentioned Uncle Kirke having a well on his property.

When they'd passed by the study Peter had gotten that other-worlds lecture in, the cat stopped, lowered its head, and sniffed under the door.

In all likelihood, Quantum had merely seen a mouse scramble under there, but Peter took it as a sign that he was supposed to go in. Curiosity impelled him to find out if that leather book of questions was still there; if Uncle Kirke had taken it with him wherever he'd been in the last few days.

The book was indeed gone, as was the silver chewing-tobacco canister. Everything else seemed exactly the same.

Unfortunately, as he was leaving, Peter was caught by Mrs. Macready.

Quantum, the bally sneak, had slunk behind a bookshelf, abandoning him once again. And the Macready, telling him off soundly, forbade him, hemming him in with very specific instructions, from doing any exploring in the house at any given time. If she could have reasonably kept him from the bathroom, dining room, and pantry, she might have barred him out of _those_ rooms, too.

That was a shame, Peter thought. There was nothing he would have liked to be doing better, right then, as he sat alone in his sitting room, than exploring the house.

All those rooms and passages-even if he hadn't found his uncle or that dashed traitor of a cat-would have been delightful for a weekend's diversion. Some of the rooms and hallways had odd things that had been there since God only knew when; looms and pianos and book shelves...and, in one large green-walled room, a gigantic harp that took up a whole corner for itself. But with the Macready prowling about, he wasn't allowed to examine any of it. He had the notion she would know if he so much as sneezed in the direction of a historical artifact or even _looked_ at the closed doors of the elevator for too long at a shot!

If only it _would _stop raining!

Peter hated to be a wet-blanket, even if there wasn't anybody around to _know_ he was being surly and feeling nettlesome, but before the rain had begun, he'd planned to go wandering the property grounds. As long as he didn't break any impressive-looking garden statues, tip over any birdbaths, or track too much mud inside, the Macready could hardy ban him from _outdoor_ exploration. But pouring rain meant he was stuck. And here he'd been, so looking forward to it! His backpack, as well-cleaned as it was going to get, had been returned to him, and he had taken the liberty of stocking it with some things for his first truly _enjoyable _trek across his great, great uncle's land; a milk chocolate Hershey's bar, a book (_Holes_ by Louis Sachar), a Game Boy Pocket, a plastic compass, a flashlight, and a silver digital wrist watch, were all packed and ready to go.

Sighing, he absently flicked down one of the wooden kings on the chessboard as he passed by and sprawled out, face-first, on the couch, muttering into a pillow, where no one-even if they _had _been around-could have heard him grouse that he was sick and tired of being left alone, utterly bored, homesick for England, most especially his friends, and hated that nothing good would_ ever_ happen to him; no matter how long he waited and hoped, or tried to make himself believe (in _what_, exactly, he didn't know or care, and it wasn't important), his life would remain one continuous bleak purgatory.

Everything was so silent, excepting the distant ticks of some clock, that Peter nearly fell asleep even though he wasn't a bit tired.

He lifted his head when he heard an odd scampering noise.

Was it Quantum?

He felt the corners of his mouth turn up, thrilled.

Never had he thought he would be so desperate for companionship that he'd positively crave the company of a stuck-up _cat_!

But it wasn't Quantum after all.

It was a little man, small as a child's plaything, climbing up the legs of the table that the chess set was arranged on top of.

Peter's eyes widened.

Oh my God, was his first thought upon taking the tiny figure in, a _borrower_!

Slowly getting up and making his way to the table, he got a better look. The man wasn't _quite _as small as a borrower. Standing up straight, instead of hunched-over, climbing vigorously as he was, the little man would have been almost up to Peter's knee.

Making little noises of exasperation with his throat, the little man finally reached the top of the table, huffing and puffing, gasping for breath.

Peter thought suddenly, a bit ashamed, that perhaps he should have helped the man. He had white hair and wrinkles, so he was probably elderly, whatever else he was. (If the character of his face had not been so completely different, Peter might have thought some mad scientist had shrunk his Uncle Kirke!) It was just that he had been-and, for the most part, was _still_-so mesmerized by this...this...tiny person...

What the devil _was _this creature?

Hopping onto the chessboard, the little man picked up the fallen King-piece and nodded dutifully, looking more contented once the board was in perfect order again.

So it _wasn't_ the maids that were so meticulous about the chess set after all!

An idea came to Peter at last and he quietly went over to the window-seat that lifted up and took out a large encyclopedia of mythical creatures he had recently borrowed from the school library. (It had looked interesting, so he went ahead and checked it out, but the only person he let know he had it was Mashka, who asked if she could have it for a bit when he was done, as opposed to making fun of his interest, as any of his other peers at Pulverulentus Siccus would have.)

The little man was dusting off the top of a wooden rook with the back of his sleeve when Peter approached with the book and coughed, "Ahem."

"Ooh?" the little man turned and blinked at him.

"Are you a gnome?" Peter asked, flipping a few pages and glancing up. "You look like a gnome."

The man took a step closer to him, coming towards the edge of the chessboard, and promptly blinked again.

"This is what a gnome looks like," he said, propping the open book up for the little man to see. He did indeed seem to match the description and sketch, for what it was worth. "I think you're one." Peter hadn't actually _believed_ in gnomes till right then, that exact moment, but he was more than willing to go with it.

The little man started climbing down the opposite side of the table.

Once on the ground, he started heading, very determinedly, for the slightly ajar door leading out of the sitting room and into the hallway.

"Hey!" laughed Peter, slamming the book closed and tossing it onto the couch behind him. "Where are you going?"

The gnome stopped, looked very hard over his shoulder at him, then started off again.

The Macready's orders not to explore the house fading with the promise of discovery-of something truly amazing _finally_ happening-Peter, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, followed.

They traveled down hallway after hallway, and then, at the door of the same spare room Peter had been outside of when he awakened from his dream about the castle, the little black-haired girl in jeweled slippers, shadows with swords, and the silver cradle, the gnome stopped.

"What?" asked Peter.

The gnome pushed on the wood of the door. When it wouldn't budge, the little man's head cocked itself at Peter in annoyance, glaring, almost as if he were blaming him.

"All right," said Peter; "I'll open it. I don't think it's locked. There really is no need to look at me like that, you know."

The gnome jumped up and down in anticipation.

Peter reached up and opened the door.

The gnome rushed in so quickly he seemed to disappear.

But there weren't very many places the little man could be hiding; it was a big enough room, certainly, but there wasn't much _in_ it. In fact, there was nothing but a white carpet with a few dents in the corner indicating that once upon a time, perhaps not _too_ long ago, a dresser had stood there, but since then it'd been moved to another location.

The only place anybody the gnome's size could have been concealed (unless the creature had somehow gotten himself _under_ the carpet) was the closet.

This closet had one of those sliding-doors with big wooden slates and a brass handle. The smell seeping out from between the slates was that of mothballs and camphor.

His hand shaking for reasons he didn't really know, Peter reached for the handle and slid open the door.

"Mr. Gnome?" he called, not knowing the little man's name.

For a second, he thought he saw an elongated man-shaped shadow that must have been the gnome's. So he stepped in after him, minding where he put his feet down so that he might avoid squashing the gnome under-foot before he could make friends with him.

Except, the gnome had vanished again.

And something else was happening.

Completely on its own, the door slid shut. Peter hadn't even time to gasp or wonder. There was a noise, like a train blowing by an old ghost town, a rush of ear-splitting, eye-watering wind; then utter silence, a soothing stillness. Somewhere, a bird sang.

The light coming into the closet through the slates was changed. No longer was it gray. It was white, and it felt nice-albeit cold-on Peter's face. The smell of mothballs and camphor still surrounded him, but they were over-powered by the smell of leafy pine and fresh, crisp out-of-doors air that chilled the inside of his nostrils. It was not unlike the odor of newly fallen snow.

Of course, that was impossible. There couldn't _really_ be snow. Peter thought the rain must have stopped and the sun had come out, now pouring into the room through the window.

He slid open the door and, stepping out, fell about a foot down, directly into a snowbank.

The closet was hovering just above the ground, the inside of it plainly visible, but as for the room it had been a part of only a few moments before, there wasn't any sign of it.

Later, thinking it over, Peter came to the conclusion that the closet had acted as a sort of elevator, but instead of taking him up, it took him sideways, through a dimension he couldn't have otherwise accessed, and into another world-the one he was becoming entangled with.

At the time, however, Peter merely stood there, dazed, gaping in amazement. He was in a snowy wood, bright and untouched, yet eerie; like something that could have been straight out of Grimm's fairytales.

Nervously, yet with a happy excitement building up, he laughed, chuckling to himself.

What _was_ this?

Well, wherever this woodsy place so happened to be, it _was _outside, which was where he'd wanted to be in the first place.

It may have been cold, and he might not have been properly dressed for wandering in the snow, but that wasn't enough to stop him. He didn't even want to pretend anything; there was no use in imagining he was an arctic explore or whatever when it was already exciting enough _without _being dipped in a fabricated adventure.

Peter was so overwhelmed and transfixed with everything, trying to take it in all at once, even being pretty sure he caught a glimpse of a hawk or two circling above him, that he didn't notice something quite close.

He didn't notice, as he passed right by her, the little girl sitting on a boulder as if waiting for something.

Whoever it was the little girl was waiting for, she apparently forgot them when she noticed Peter go by. She tilted her head, interested in the strange friendly-looking person, and hopped down off the rock.

Still not seeing her, Peter kept on walking.

The little girl followed, only an arm's length or so behind him.

A strange feeling coming over him, Peter stopped.

The little girl stopped.

He turned his head. Nothing. Just a smiling little girl. All right, then. He prepared to resume his walk, then it registered in earnest. _Why_ was there a little girl following him? Where did _she_ come from?

She was a sweet-faced child, about seven years old, with big blue eyes and long, mussed up, reddish-brown hair that, if it had been combed neatly and left loose, would have been about thigh-length on her. She was clothed in a long dress of brown taffeta (splattered with snow all down the front, like she'd taken a digger or two and not managed to brush off all the icy frost afterward), over which she had a woolen rust-red cloak with an unfastened, rather askew, silver clasp. The fur-lined hood was not pulled over her head, but was bunched up uselessly in a wad at the back of the collar of her dress.

"Hullo," said Peter.

The little girl smiled at him but said nothing. She did, however, start trotting along at his side instead of behind him.

There was something about the girl that Peter automatically liked. Even though they'd just met and she'd not so much as said a word to him, he felt somehow as if he knew her already, as if from some other life, and was awfully fond of her. He also felt this sense of protectiveness over her. If anybody had run up to them then with the purpose of doing the little girl some harm, he knew he would have beaten the living daylights out of them before he let them so much as lay a finger on this precious child.

Which was why, when a wolf came barreling out from a shriveled, ice-encased bush and seemed to be heading directly for the little girl, the first thing Peter did wasn't run or try to protect himself; it was to reach out his arm, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and push the girl behind himself. If that wolf wanted her, it was going through _him_ first.

Rather than attack, or lower itself and growl, the wolf-which Peter now realized was sort of smallish and probably a female-whimpered, took a few steps back, then, as if mustering up her courage, came over and nuzzled the back of his hand lightly, licking it once.

"Maya!" The little girl ducked under Peter's still out-stretched arm and threw her arms round the wolf's neck. "Doevy Edmund Yende Maugrim?"

What did she just say? She must have been speaking another language, separate from English entirely, because Peter hadn't the foggiest.

Another wolf, obviously male, and far larger than the one the little girl referred to as 'Maya', jumped out from behind Peter and circled him, growling. _This _one had no intention whatsoever of licking his hand.

"Maugrim!" cried the little girl, sounding glad to see him, which Peter, in contrast, who was trying very hard not to wet himself from fear of this wild animal currently baring his teeth and looking like it wanted to kill him, was _not_.

That was when a scowling, dark-haired boy, same age as the little girl, but a nearly a full head taller, came running, holding something up threateningly, glaring at Peter.

"Don't-" Peter began, taking in that the boy's weapon was in fact nothing more than a stick. "...Um, _stick_ me," he finished, crinkling his forehead.

The little girl ran up to the boy and tried to take the stick from his hand. "Naoh, Edmund! Naoh!" She gestured at Peter. "Agyle Miyoo Emadilco!"

The boy, evidently called Edmund, gave him a skeptical look that one could label more bluntly as 'the stink eye' but, per the little girl's insistence, he stopped trying to attack Peter with a stick.

Although, if it weren't for the larger wolf, who was noticeably keeping very close to the boy's side, as if in defense of him, Peter would have had a very easy time of it, simply giving Edmund a hearty shove down a snowy hill without either one of them getting badly hurt, if the boy really _had _tried to fight him.

The little girl grabbed onto Peter's hand and tugged, as if telling him to come with them.

The larger wolf, Maugrim, suddenly looked right at Peter and said, in plain English, his accent pretty close to British, "You're coming with us."

Peter's eyes widened. That wolf had just... Like a _person_... Perhaps he shouldn't go with these people. But he trusted the little girl entirely for some reason, something to do with her having such an honest face; and, as far as Edmund went, Peter also felt a strange sort of connection to him he couldn't name. He knew only that he had strong feelings towards this angry stick-wielding boy, although whether they were strictly good ones, or else mostly bad, he couldn't be wholly certain straight-off. And the wolf had told him he was to come with them. Of course, being a wolf, it shouldn't have been_ telling_ him anything; he knew that. But there also shouldn't have been a gnome in his sitting room, or a closet that could transport him to a snowy wood. If he was accepting of _those_ things, this wasn't really too great of a stretch, he supposed.

They-Peter, the boy and girl, and the two wolves-wandered on for what felt like at least four miles before they reached what could only be their destination.

At what was roughly the halfway point on this trek, Peter had noticed they were passing under an old fashioned lamppost that could have been straight out of a Charles Dickens novel. It burned brightly-_cheerfully_, even-in spite of looking old; but it was odd, he thought, that somebody would set a lamppost in an area where the foliage was so dense; if those trees had all their leaves, in the summer, they would surely have blocked the light from reaching anywhere much.

But their 'destination' was so unexpectedly glorious to behold that he quickly forgot all about the out-of-place lamppost.

It was a grand camp of some kind; gorgeous pavilions were arranged everywhere, spots of rich colour against the white backdrop of the snow. Patterns of gold-embroidered lions and rosebuds and lilies and ivy vines, along with designs that looked little fiery flames and azure ocean waves, abounded rampantly on every piece of fabric your eye landed upon.

There was laughter and merriment, and men in doublets and tunics and cloaks of wool and fur-like the little girl's, only larger-drank a reddish liquid out of silver goblets studded with rubies and onyxes.

A fire-juggler, clothed in a black unitard and a midnight-blue cape made of satin, tossed seven burning logs round in a constant circle as easily as if they were balls from a little kid's playpen, never once missing and causing a mass disaster to befall the great camp.

And there were ladies in pointy hats, wearing many precious jewels on their necks, wrists, and fingers. They gossiped in tight circles, often tittering at something murmured by the eldest lady in the group.

Stranger still were the men who were not exactly _like_ men. The majority were human only from the waist upwards, goat from there down; and some of these had long tails they had to drape over their arms when they walked. Peter, an avid reader who liked myths, could put a name to them, after thinking for a moment: satyrs...or _fauns_, maybe... The ones that were not half-goat appeared to have the lower-build of a horse. _Centaurs_. The centaurs were very regal, standing so still and serious and looking nothing at all like the ordinary men-or even the goaty chaps-lost in merriment, and yet they _did _seem to be enjoying themselves very much all the same, in their own grave way.

One group consisted of a sad-faced faun, two dark-haired human girls, and a dark-haired, olive-skinned, human boy who was Peter's own age. They were whispering frantically amongst themselves.

The faun noticed Peter, the wolves, and the children. His sad face turned into one full of jubilation. "Oh, thanks be to the Lion! They're safe."

The older girl, who was only a year or two Peter's senior, gave him a curious look, brows furrowed, then lifted her powder-blue silken skirts and curtsied. "We thank you, Sir, for returning our wandered-off charges."

Up close, Peter noticed that this older girl looked a lot like the boy. Her skin, though lighter in hue, had an olive tone to it as well, and she also had the same chin and similarly shaped eyes.

The boy gave him a kind smile. "We are deeply grateful for your trouble."

"Oh, _Lucy_!" cried the younger girl, ignoring Peter-who, after one short glance, thought her quite the prettiest person he'd ever seen in his life-and rushing to the little girl's side. She was dressed in purple velvet and wore a gold circlet on her dark head. "How could you?" She bent down at the child's level. "You frightened me half to death! It was very naughty to run off like that." She swallowed hard and blinked back tears. "And would you _look_ at your _dress_, Sister!" Grunting and muttering, she tried to brush the ice off of it. "What _did_ you do? Roll around in a snowbank_ trying_ to catch your death and give me a heart attack?"

In response to all of this, Lucy said nothing at all. She stared sadly at this girl of a dozen years, sorry to have worried her, but she wouldn't be, for all the fuss, compelled to speak up.

Edmund gave a small, self-conscious cough.

The girl glared at him. "And _you_!" She let go of Lucy's dress and pointed accusingly at him. "This is _your_ fault. I've told you countless times not to encourage her. Thousands and thousands of times I told you, again and again! But it's no _good_. Because you're worse than her, Ed! Worse! And you won't even _try_ to improve. I should just let you two grow up like complete and utter savages, raised by those wolves you run about with. Aslan knows you're halfway there already! And you'd fit right in because you're just like those stupid wolves of yours: smelly and sullen and unkempt!"

"_Stupid_?" snarled Maugrim.

"I was not addressing _you_." The girl's voice cracked and Peter wondered if she was going to start bawling.

Maya put her paw over her nose, like she was trying to hide behind it, and whined softly.

"Susan, it is all right," the olive-skinned boy put a hand on her shoulder. "No lasting harm was done."

"That is not for you to say, Caspian." She shrugged off his grip. "It's not all right unless _I_ say it's all right!"

"Master Tumnus, please take the twins to the pavilion and make sure they eat something," said the other dark-haired girl.

"Certainly, Lady Catalina," said the faun, trotting over, finding some difficulty in getting Lucy to let go of Peter's hand, finally succeeding, but not without strenuous effort. "Come, let's get you both something hot to drink." To Susan, the faun, added, "Don't be too vexed, your Majesty. They don't mean to be wicked, you know. They've both got hearts of pure gold. _Any_ set of children will come with their own mischief. And they seem dazed; perhaps they've had a touch of the sun and can't think straight..."

Her face softened a bit. "Yes, Master Tumnus. You're probably right. It's just... This is the third time in the last three months they've run off."

"You treat those children right, they might not run off," muttered Catalina under her breath.

"Excuse me?" Susan's face hardened again.

Catalina lowered her head. "Nothing. I beg your pardon, I misspoke."

"And you, where did you find my siblings?" Susan finally decided to take some notice of Peter.

"_They_ sort of found _me_, actually..." he stammered, feeling uncomfortable, all eyes on him.

"It _was _good of him to accompany the twins, regardless. Do we know this fellow from anywhere?" Caspian whispered loudly to Catalina.

"I think not," she replied. "But he has a very pleasant appearance, don't you think?"

Susan, over-hearing, snorted, "Oh, don't be ridiculous; he dresses like a fool."

"Well, I like that!" Peter blurted out, a touch insulted. Given, there was no gold thread on his sweatshirt and blue jeans, but she needn't be such an out-right snob, even if she _was _of high enough nobility that she could wear a circlet and be called 'your Majesty' by her masters!

"But seriously," she pressed, wrinkling her nose. "What_ are_ those? Waist-overalls or something?"

_Oh, great_, thought Peter, _I've fallen out of New York, right into the renaissance version of Pulverulentus Siccus Junior High_.

**AN: ****Pleaseth to reviewth*******


	5. Ice Jousting

"Please, sit," said Susan.

Peter had been wandering the camp semi-aimlessly ever since that confrontation when she'd asked him how he had come by her siblings and then proceeded to criticize his choice of clothing. He'd learned that this country the spare room's closet had transported him into was called Narnia; Lady Catalina and Lord Caspian were brother and sister, the children of a Duke from some other country called Telmar, and were (on their mother's side) cousins to Susan; that the twins (Edmund and Lucy) with the talking wolves (supposedly Maya could speak same as Maugrim when she wished to but was painfully shy and often liked nothing better than to keep silent) were the only Narnians who spoke no English, preferring a gibberish language they'd evidently invented themselves; and that Susan was the unchallenged High Queen of Narnia.

It seemed odd to him that a persnickety twelve-year-old could rule over anything, but she had advisers who formed a counsel, the purpose of which was to help her make wise decisions in the best interests of her country: the faun Tumnus being one of these, and the rest largely consisting of a group of middle-aged, fair-headed men who had been loyal supporters of her father and mother, the old king and queen.

But evening was setting in quickly, quite in earnest now, and everyone, as if they hadn't been drinking and feasting on little delicacies all this time, were sitting down at long tables arranged in an enormous pavilion with sheer curtains and steaming silver-wheeled carts of fine food on one end.

Peter's stomach growled and he'd gone into the pavilion, unsure if he would be permitted to share in the meal. He hoped, though, that he would be given at least a small dish of something or other, considering the only food he had in his backpack was a single chocolate bar.

However, as he passed the table Queen Susan, Lady Catalina, and Caspian were reclining at, he heard the queen's voice formally telling him to take a seat.

He obeyed, easing down into the chair she offhandedly indicated; notwithstanding that the queen sounded stiff, and her voice was noticeably strained, as if his very presence was bothering her.

Earlier, after discovering that he had nothing of importance to say, Susan had lost almost all interest in the badly-dressed blonde boy whose hand Lucy had been clinging to upon returning to the camp; it mattered hardly at all to her what was done with him. Now, certainly, he should be thanked for watching the children, given _something _for his troubles, perhaps-some coins (gold Lions or silver and copper Trees) or the loan of some small plot of land the crown currently had no use for-that wasn't up for debate, even if, by his own tale, he admitted, indeed, all that really happened was that Lucy had tugged him along and Maugrim had ordered him to come; but surely nothing could further be expected of her beyond that, for he was naught but a stranger who gave only the name 'Peter Pevensie' and would provide no title to speak of and no lords or stewards to contact in regards to him.

All the same, he was in _her _country, _her_ kingdom, at one of _her _winter feasts, which made him _her_ subject-and Susan was not at all in the practice of letting her subjects go hungry before her very eyes. So she felt a grudging obligation to feed him before she had her guards get rid of him; thus her invitation.

Further down the table, Lucy was being unreasonably surly for no reason except that she wanted to be back in the other pavilion, where her twin was taking his meal alone with their wolves.

Sometimes Susan felt as if she didn't understand that child one bit. It was an honour-a _privilege_, even-to sup with the lords and ladies of the court-and at one of the year's finest feasts, no less! Lucy deserved to be punished for running off, and here she was being given a great treat she hadn't earned, and all she could do was mope and play with her food.

Lucy would not have consented to sitting at the table to begin with-would have surely put up a much greater fuss-if Susan had not given her the seat directly next to Tumnus. Lucy was fond of Tumnus, who was something of a makeshift tutor to herself and Edmund, teaching them whenever they could be cornered, caught, and forced to learn something, and simply seeing to it that they didn't break their necks the rest of the time. Even Edmund liked Tumnus, and there were precious few people he got on well with. If he_ hadn't_ liked Tumnus, it would have been apparent; in such case, he would have never _let_ him lead his twin off to the dining pavilion to begin with.

"It's all right, Princess," whispered Tumnus, leaning close to her ear. "I can assure you the servants have given Edmund something to eat by now. He isn't being punished any more than you are. Neither of you are going hungry, I promise, faun's honour. Please eat something."

Lucy consented and was about to raise to her mouth a spoonful of something with the general consistency of thick tomato sauce that smelled heavily seasoned and had been poured out over the slice of venison on her plate, when she noticed who it was Susan was inviting to join them.

Why, it was her new friend!

She sat up straighter so he could see her amidst all the older, much_ taller,_ lords and ladies.

Peter cocked his head and smiled when he caught sight of her. She was wearing a different dress (a clean one) and her hair had been brushed through, braided, and piled on top of her head in a neat twist, but she was still readily recognizable as the little blue-eyed waif who had stood up for him when her twin brother wanted to beat him with a stick.

"So, Lady Catalina has been alluding to her belief that I was discourteous and unfriendly when I inquired of how you came across my siblings," Susan said as a servant refiled the empty diamond-studded cup beside her plate with ginger-beer.

Peter half-shrugged. "You weren't unfriendly," he mumbled pointedly.

Caspian choked on whatever he had in his mouth when Peter said that, and a centaur had to trot over and pound him on the back.

Catalina giggled. "Just discourteous, then?"

Susan glared at her.

Peter smirked.

"Very amusing," simpered Susan, in a tone that suggested just the opposite.

Lord Peridan, the son of one of Queen Susan's advisers, chuckled lightly. "Mister _Pevensie_, was it?"

"Oh, call me Peter."

"Um, Peter, then, right..." Peridan nodded, as if mentally jotting that down for future reference. "Would you like to stay with us for the night and join us for ice-jousting tomorrow morning?"

If Susan weren't so well brought up, she might have sucked her teeth in annoyance. She didn't _want _Peter Pevensie to extend his stay; she wanted to be _rid_ of the freeloading vagabond already! It would be one thing if he were some great tall, dark, and handsome knight who made charming conversation worthy of the annual winter feast, gallant, well-groomed, and admirable, but this boy was none of those things; only a year older than her and exactly the same height, right up to the very inch, shabby clothes that wouldn't flatter a low lordling's gardener's assistant, and tussled blonde hair. He simply was not up to courtly standards. How could she be a good example for Edmund and Lucy, telling them to groom themselves better and model their behavior after proper royalty, whilst going out of her way to persist in entertaining and playing host to this Peter person? She _couldn't_. This was quickly becoming absurd.

But before the queen could turn her nose up high enough to protest, something happened that stunned her into forgetting all about how she wanted Peter paid off for his goodness to the twins and then promptly _gone_.

Lucy, leaning over the table to call over to Peter, interjected, directly after Peridan's offer, "Would you like to stay with us for ever?"

Susan's jaw dropped open, her light blue eyes gone as wide as they humanly could without falling out of her head in the process. Her cheeks were flushed as red as the ripest of apples.

"You _can_ speak English?" gasped Catalina.

"Lions alive! What else have you been hiding, Lucy?" Caspian blurted out, not unkindly.

Lucy did not reply. She looked very intently at Peter, then went back to eating as if nothing had happened.

Susan fought against a groan. It was plain as day, what Lucy wanted. She'd seen that look on her sister's face before; it was the same expression she wore when she dragged a stray dog behind her, or cupped a small animal in her hands, that nobody else wanted anything to do with and silently pleaded for permission to keep it. And, more often than not, the times Susan had managed to be firm and put her foot down, saying no, Lucy had a habit of hiding her illegal pets and keeping them by guile. If it were any other child, Susan wouldn't have worried too much, knowing it was naught but a young girl's fascination and easily dealt with, but with Lucy it was different; she wouldn't put it past her to find a way of smuggling Peter back home to their castle with them. It didn't matter that he was human, not a cat or a dog or a shiny gold trinket she'd found lying on the roadside; that look meant Lucy wasn't going to take no for an answer. Lucy could be painfully stubborn when she made up her mind to be, as Susan, only trying to do what was best for her, had found out, time and time again, the hard way.

Well, no more, Susan thought, absolutely no more. Lucy is _growing_; she isn't a baby any longer, and she needs to be taught that she cannot have everything she wants. Peter can stay for ice-jousting, if it means that much to her, and since Peridan was a fool and invited him, but, so help me, Aslan, he is _not_ coming home with us!

After the fine meal, which really was nourishing enough, though odd and not at all like the processed food Peter was accustomed to-giving him the feeling he was at a 'Taste of Old England' restaurant, or else was a contestant on some bizarre reality show where people couldn't eat anything that wasn't served in the middle ages-three fauns led him to a long black pavilion strung with strong silken hammocks well-stocked with velvet blankets, deerskin, and furs.

It was so dark inside that the faun who went in front had to carry an oil lantern.

"You can sleep here," they told him. "This is the boys' sleeping pavilion; the ladies all sleep on the other side of that dividing curtain over yonder, so you'll have your privacy."

One of them handed him, folded up in a bundle, a long white nightshirt and a gray cloak-like robe with holes for his arms to go through to wear over it.

After they left him, he changed, left his jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers in a crumpled pile under the hammock, and, climbing up and making himself comfortable, crawled beneath the warm covers.

Even though everything was so foreign and exciting that he thought he would never drop off to sleep, he was so tired that scarcely five minutes of lying there, feeling the strange fabrics on his skin, passed before he was out like a light.

Waking up halfway, he did partly hear the other boys-sons of lords or lordlings, knights, squires, and young men otherwise related to, or friends with, royalty-came in and jumped into their own hammocks, some of them so roughly it made the whole pavilion sway and a young woman-the sister of a knight-on the other side of the divider ranted loudly about how she was trying to sleep so for them to use their brains for once and stop behaving like small elephants.

The next thing Peter was aware of, waking again in the night, this time more fully, was a pair of brown eyes glinting-not too menacingly but in a manner still a bit unnerving all the same-at him from the next hammock over.

It was Edmund, propped up on his elbow, squinting across at this new boy. He knew his twin liked the chap a great deal but was still not quite settled on what his own opinion of this odd intruder was. When he saw that Peter was awake and looking back over at him, he lowered himself down off his elbow, grunted, and pulled some of the furs over his head.

He's a strange one, thought Peter, yawning heavily and preparing to go back to sleep; _he_ was staring at _me,_ and yet he makes out like_ I _was the one bothering _him_.

The divider lifted up from the girls' side and Lucy crept in. She was in her nightclothes, carrying a candle in a tiny iron candlestick made purposefully either for a dwarf's hands or a child's.

She quietly came over to their hammocks, and call-whispered to her twin. "Edmund?"

He pulled the furs off his head and sat up at once, acknowledging his twin's presence. "Lu?"

"Eooh sane-nat sannae." She placed the candle down on the floor.

Edmund nodded and scooted over, allowing her to climb into his hammock with him, giving her half the covers.

Peter couldn't help but be deeply moved by their affection. It was evident that the twins, whatever mischief they got into during the day, causing constant fear in the lives of their over-stressed guardians, they leaned on each other completely; it was no wonder, really, seeing how close they were, that they spoke a language only the two of them could understand.

Seeing them curled up under the furs and velvets, soon snoring, almost made Peter wish _he_ had a twin. Somebody to understand him when nobody else could, or was even willing to _try_, and a person to understand-and love-in return; someone in whose company he wouldn't feel so lonely anymore.

Strangely enough, Peter fell back asleep with those thoughts on his mind, and woke in the morning to the feeling of someone else in the hammock with him, snuggled up against his side.

Squinting, he discovered it was Lucy, having crept over from Edmund's hammock to his in the middle of the night, curled up in his warmth as if she were nothing more than an over-sized kitten pressing close against its beloved master. All that was missing was a purr. And, frankly, her contented snoring came close enough.

It was not at all nice to remove the nightshirt and change back into his now wrinkled and not so fresh clothes from New York. Peter winced as he pulled the jeans up over his thighs, which were slightly reddened and raw from cold. He had been perfectly warm under the covers, but after pulling all that warm, well-insulated, fabric and skin and fur back, the cold struck him with surprising force he was not prepared for.

Lucy was warm. She was still asleep; he'd gotten up with care not to wake her and then tucked the covers back around her so she wouldn't be chilled.

Lord Peridan loaned Peter the use of a woolen cape that made his shoulders prickle and the hairs on his arms stand up on edge from the warmth of its padding, along with an extra pair of socks to wear over the ones he already had on. So, from the knee up and the ankle down, he slowly began to thaw. The trick of keeping his hands warm was to rub them together as often as possible and to blow on them as hard as he could when all else failed.

Ice-jousting turned out to be nothing more than persons on skates trying to knock one another down with a long pole. The tip was blunted, so it wouldn't hurt (or skewer) the person whose rib-cage it was thrust into, but Peter was still fairly sure it would leave a bruise and that if you got jabbed enough times with it you'd definitely smart real bad come the next day.

Peter was, as far as the activity itself went, a little disappointed: this sport had sounded, in passing, like it would be more interesting.

There were two separate frozen ponds used by the camp for this ice-jousting business. The first was for the younger children; they were given poles with padding on them so they wouldn't hurt one another and allowed to play there. The second was for the main event; there, men-mostly knights-who had been training for this winter feast sport and were prepared to put on a good show, competed against one another while the royals and courtiers watched, oohed, ahhed, and clasped appropriately.

Peter secretly would have preferred to be on the children's pond, laughing and jesting with the others. Even the twins, who had eventually gotten up, wrapped themselves in warm garments, and gotten their faces clean enough to suit their sister in spite of the fact that the water was frozen and they'd had to break a layer of ice off of the basin before they could wash, appeared to be having a good time. They laughed and charged at each other with their padded poles, sometimes even so that they _both _fell at the same time. However, none of the kids playing on children's pond seemed to be over the age of eleven; and Queen Susan and all her royal mates were acting grown-up, watching the sport preformed properly.

Wooden benches with cushions had been arranged, and servants brought round gold-rimmed mugs of hot chocolate, freshly-made coffee, and steaming apple cider.

Unsure of whom he was welcome to sit with (Lord Peridan was participating in the jousting, standing in a space reserved for the upcoming competitors, so even though he'd been the one to initially invite Peter the previous evening, he couldn't sit with him), Peter decided on an empty space next to a rather fat, shortish old man with a long white beard like Father Christmas.

"Hello there," said the old man.

"Hello," Peter said back.

"I'm Doctor Cornelius," he told him. "Lord Caspian's tutor. I teach Science and Grammar to Lady Catalina as well, but she has a governess for every other subject."

"I'm-" Peter began.

"Peter Pevensie, from a land called New York," he finished for him.

The blood in his veins ran cold. "How did you know that?"

"Oh, well, your name? Easily. Everyone's been talking about how you arrived at camp with the twins."

"But I never told anyone here I was from New York."

Doctor Cornelius smiled. "Some things, my boy, I just know. You'll have to trust me to only share my secrets when the right time is nigh."

"What else do you know about me?"

"That's for me to know, and you to find out when-"

"I know, I know," Peter cut him off; "when the time is 'nigh'." Under his breath, he added shortly, "Whatever _that_ means."

"How are you liking it here so far?"

"It's nice," he said sincerely. "A bit cold, but nice. The queen is-" Peter stopped. He had been about to say that the queen was... Well, he wasn't actually sure what, exactly. A big snob? Very pretty, but even colder than the weather was? Either way, he figured he'd best not say that. It might be treason or something. Moreover, it made his face feel hot, talking about it.

"Oh, don't be too hard on Susan, dear boy," advised Doctor Cornelius. "She's had so much responsibility in her life. You wait and see, she'll come round." He pointed away from the main pond, to where the children where playing. "She's had to look after the twins since she was five years old and her father died. Add a country-a whole kingdom of problems-to manage on top of that... It's a lot to put on such young shoulders. Luckily, she has help, but sometimes I do wonder if it's the right sort...or enough..."

"You said her father died," Peter noted. "What about her Mum?"

"Oh, dead two years before that."

"The twins are seven, right?"

"Right."

"Then how could their mother..."

Doctor Cornelius shook his head. "It is not often spoken of, indeed, I think her Majesty wishes it forgotten entirely, but the twins are her _half_-siblings. Their mother-Susan's stepmother-was a..." He looked both ways and lowered his voice. "A witch, Peter. Everybody knew Queen Jadis was a witch, but the king...he must have had a reason for marrying her, perhaps he was under a spell, or he did it to protect something...regardless, there was nothing the people could do.

"Naturally, as soon as the king died, however, there wasn't a soul in Narnia who would stand for having a witch as a queen, even if only as temporary regent, lest the wrath of Aslan come upon them..."

Something inside of Peter jumped. "Who's Aslan?"

"The one behind the power of all true Narnian kings and queens, a great Lion."

"A _talking _lion? He can speak, like those wolves?"

"Not _a_ talking lion, _the_ talking Lion. He's much more powerful than those wolves. Course, he hasn't been seen in Narnia for ever so many years now..." His voice trailed off, then picked up again. "Anyway, the twins were born to the witch. Susan might have ordered their death, but she went the opposite way and urged her subjects to love the children since they were as much her father's as she was.

"The problem is, they never did act quite normal. I love the twins deeply myself. Grown fond of them, I truly have. But I daren't say so. Few people dare."

"But why?" Peter didn't understand. Yes, Edmund was a piece of work, but who would think anything could possibly be the matter with a little girl as sweet as _Lucy_?

"Some might question the validity of that love, believing any love felt for them is from compulsion, from some essence of their witch-blood."

"That's rubbish, yeah!" cried Peter, a bit too loudly. Then, lowering his voice, he continued, "They're just kids, Doctor. So they have their own language... Cryptophasia happens in twins sometimes. It doesn't mean they have bad blood or aren't _normal_."

"I couldn't agree more," whispered Doctor Cornelius heartily, nodding. "But you must understand, Susan is not always among friends, and the wolves..."

"What about the wolves?"

"They were left as pups, the only survivors of the pack that Jadis the witch-queen brought with her to the castle of Cair Paravel. The rest attacked the 'rebelling' Narnians when they banned together for the cause that the queen be removed and young Susan be put on the throne as quickly as possible. That attack resulted in the stamping-out of most of the talking wolves in these parts. Maugrim and Maya were too small, their eyes weren't open yet...

"They were shut away in a kennel in a secret room, for their own protection as much as ours, but then one day Lucy and Edmund, exploring the castle, stumbled upon them and fell in love with the creatures, bonded instantly, and they've been accompanied, each by their own wolf, wherever they go, since that day. Maya is Lucy's; Maugrim, Edmund's. It gives a great deal of Narnians a certain level of unrest. Two half-witch children...twins, at that, which are said to be more powerful still...wolves for companions... They are feared. Susan wakes up each day with the worry that something will happen and her siblings will be blamed and forced to stand trial; and she thinks they're too young to understand what that means, how it could end. Honestly, between you and me, I do believe that's what frightens the queen most."

Peter glanced over at Susan. She didn't look afraid of anything; he had never seen anyone so together and composed.

"She keeps things to herself," Doctor Cornelius explained. "And you would do well to follow that example to some extent. The things I've just told you..."

"I won't say anything."

"To anyone..."

"I _won't_."

"You had best not." The old doctor slowly rose to his feet. "You might find yourself in a precarious situation."

**AN: Please leave a review.**


	6. Travel part one

**AN: I would have had this up earlier, but the document manager was down. **

_It was in the winter of 1542 when Peter came to Narnia, hailing from the far away land of Spare Oom, New York. _

_He did not see me, when he _first_ arrived at the camp in the middle of the winter feast, but I saw him. _

_And a few whispers and inquires later, I knew who he was. _

_I, Doctor Cornelius, had been expecting him, though I knew, prior to his arrival, not when. Indeed, it was I who spoke, by means of entangled book that existed simultaneously in two very different universes, to a certain Professor Digory Kirke. _

_The professor's last message to me was: 'the boy begins to feel the pull'. _

_So I knew, with one final yank, one firm blow, he would come. _

_And it was _I _who arranged for Queen Susan to unwittingly summon him by means of her ivory horn._

_I hoped only that what I set in motion would be successful; for there was not a soul alive who understood how many years it had taken me to arrange this_.

When Doctor Cornelius said that he had spoken with Peter during the ice-jousting and wished to continue his conversation with the lad at Cair Paravel, if it so pleased the queen's grace, Susan was furious.

"It does _not _please me!" she cried vehemently. "There is no need whatever for him to accompany us on the road, nor for his presence to be required at Cair Paravel. He was decent to the twins; give him a reward and send him on his own way."

"For a reward," said the old doctor meekly, "I would suggest some new garments. His aren't going to keep him very warm."

"That is acceptable," Susan said hurriedly. "Give him a whole new wardrobe if such is your wish, good doctor."

"And I would have such garments tailored properly to him," he added. "Our tailors are back at Cair."

"You _dare_ contradict and deceive me!" exclaimed Susan. "You dare!"

"I have never led you astray, my queen," said Doctor Cornelius gently. "I have been a good professor-a fine tutor-to your cousin. And I have served you loyally, asking only one favor, which you were willing to consent to with your own reasonableness and gentle kindness; I ask only one favor further, your Majesty."

Susan felt herself weakening. It was hard to be cross with someone who spoke with such a calm, logical tone. All the more so, someone who she had always liked.

And, indeed, he spoke truth; in all the time she'd known him, the half-dwarf, half-Telmarine had asked her to do only one thing for him: to blow, at sunrise, on a certain day when he discreetly roused her from her chambers and urged her to come out onto the east-facing balcony with him, into an ivory horn that had been the last gift her father ever gave to her before his death. The king had said superstition suggested the horn to be magic, but she didn't believe in it; she had been afraid to, since the only magic she'd ever known had come from her stepmother, Jadis, a witch, and was inherently bad, a source of fear cast over her subjects. Susan had not wanted the one tangible thing her father had left her with to be tainted. The easiest way of making it so was simply not believing in the horn's magic at all.

"Very well, he shall come," she gave in.

Well, if nothing else, _Lucy_ would be pleased; and she would be spared the seven year old's tears of disappointment at being separated from him. Still, it was hard for the young queen not to feel resentment, as she watched the servants attempting to arrange a spare horse for Peter.

"Forget the horse," Susan finally told them, exasperated. "Let him ride in an open carriage with the pavilion poles."

"He will be cold," Lord Peridan pointed out. "Our brisk riding will keep us warm, but sitting there, between the poles, being dragged along, he will freeze right up."

"That is his own concern," sniffed Susan, lifting her chin, rather primly. "But of course we will give him blankets. And he has the cloak you've loaned him."

Peter grimaced at the carriages. He had his choice of which one, but none would be particularly comfortable, given that they were full of supplies and poles and other things that would be constantly in his way. Even taking into account all that Doctor Cornelius had told him in regards to the queen's troubled past, Peter still thought her a real snob. He might have been permitted to ride a cart-horse, at least! Or to go on the back of a larger horse with somebody else, maybe.

He felt the warmth of a little hand slipping into his own. "I'll ride with you."

"Thank you, Lucy."

But, just then, Edmund came thundering up on a horse the others called Phillip and he and Lucy referred to as 'Corcelo', which meant horse (or pony) in their twin-speak. (Maugrim and Maya were close-by the horse, moving at an impressive pace alongside it so that, if they had been smaller and somewhat less intelligent-looking, they would have resembled dogs brought out in a hunting party.) He reached down and pulled his twin up into the saddle behind himself, making it clear that Lucy was riding with _him_.

For a seven year old, Peter had to admit Edmund really was quite the expert horseman. One could tell he had been riding since shortly after he'd learned to walk.

Lucy goggled apologetically at Peter and clung to her twin's waist as the horse took off towards the front of the party preparing their mounts to leave.

Tumnus swung up onto the back of his horse, Coalblack, balancing his hooves in the special stirrups designed purposefully for persons with the hindquarters of a goat.

Once he'd eased down into the saddle, though he wasn't an old faun, Susan noticed he panted semi-heavily and put his hand to his heart for a moment.

"Master Tumnus..."

"I'm perfectly all right, your Majesty," he assured her.

"You looked unwell, for a moment."

"Never been better in my life." He smiled reassuringly. "It was only heartburn; something I ate must have disagreed with me."

Susan gave him a single, wary look of concern, but, nodding, allowed two human servants and a strong, muscular centaur to grasp hold of her waist and lightly hoist her up into the sidesaddle strapped to her white mare, Snowflake.

As the procession began, a few well-sounded, but not tactlessly noisy, trumpets blown in the front, Peter found himself wondering-already shivering, even with the padded cloak's warmth shielding him from the worst of the cold-why he was doing this. Why didn't he just go back to the professor's? The professor liked him-maybe...a little... And the cat, Quantum, tolerated him. His mother, even having less time for him in those days, loved him. They all liked him better there than the queen in this world did, at any rate; he was better off with them. Only, he had _wanted_ so _badly _for something to happen, and finally it _had_; would he really be willing to forsake the adventure it gave him so easily? Not _he_! Besides, Lucy liked him, and Edmund's doubtful tolerance was no riskier than that of a particularly temperamental pet. Peter knew he ought to be a match for one seven year old, if he turned on him. And, moreover, he shouldn't like Queen Susan to think she could get rid of him that easily. Something about her treatment of him gave him the urge to show her up a bit. If he could endure the travel, and do as he pleased, whatever _she_ thought about it, then he would be proving himself. She would know better than to think he could be tossed aside or ordered about. Susan was a queen, yes, but he was still a full year older. Back in his own world, he wouldn't let some little child-however pretty she was-put him down. He got enough of that from those in his _own _age group, thank you very much!

They rode on for half a day, and Peter made a point of never letting on how uncomfortable he was. He wouldn't give sweet Lucy, looking over her shoulder from the back of her twin brother's horse at him, the worry; nor Susan, her full, pouting mouth sulkily pronounced whenever her eyes passed over him, remembering he was there against her initial wishes, the satisfaction.

They stopped once to eat an an inn.

By then, Peter's bottom was sore from the carriage seat and it hurt both to sit down _and_ to stand up.

Their next stop was, two days later, in front of a manor that Doctor Cornelius said belonged to a distant cousin of his: a full-blooded dwarf who went by the name of Trumpkin.

The dwarf, his steward, and his betrothed would be coming to live at court for a while with them. It was believed that the wedding would be held at Cair Paravel, likely in the very early springtime.

Susan didn't like the steward, Lord Asher, much. He was more of a steward _in training_, really-very young-_too_ young, in her opinion, to be of much use. He was twelve, same as she was, and the son of Trumpkin's former steward.

Still, he would have been all right, if only the bespectacled, stuttering, uncoordinated boy didn't openly fancy her.

They'd met for the first time, a year before, the both of them only eleven, at a masked ball held in Beruna. He hadn't known her for the queen, and when he mustered up the courage to inquire her name, his unprepossessing manner irked her so deeply that she gave him a false name: Lady Phyllis.

Worse was that, even after he discovered her deception, and learned that she was far, far out of his reach, he was still prone to making sheep eyes at her from behind his smudged spectacles, or blushing beet-red whenever she looked into his eyes while addressing him or giving an order that involved him, whither directly or indirectly.

For what it was worth, however, Susan _was _curious about Trumpkin's bride to be. For he was, while not an _old_ dwarf, exactly, still middle-aged, and had never expressed much interest in going courting.

Everyone had always taken Trumpkin to be a bachelor by choice, no nagging dwarf-lady taking his fancy well enough for him to put up with her, or to go outside when he wished to smoke his pipe instead of lighting up indoors whenever he jolly well felt like it, sprinkling tobacco-ash on the carpets as much as was his pleasure. Then, one day, completely out of the blue, he had written to Tumnus, and a few others at Cair Paravel, that he had found a woman he loved dearly and wished to marry. He even requested that his old manor (he had been living in a sort of dug-out tree with a sour black dwarf and a badger for roommates) be restored so he might have somewhere to put his lady up when they were not at court; someplace _proper_.

Close behind Lord Asher, who went pink from his ears to his neck upon catching sight of Susan, thinking her even more lovely than the last time he'd seen her, was a young woman of perhaps seventeen or eighteen; her hair was strawberry blonde, her complexion of the golden rose-leaf variety, and her eyes pale gray with flecks of amber in some lights.

Did Asher have an elder sister I knew nothing of? Thought Susan, baffled.

Trumpkin made an appearance, after helping a faun who was carrying a heavy trunk to the carriages and nearly toppled over after tripping on the cobblestone, and, in his usual gruff voice, said, "I see you've met my betrothed."

"Where is she?" whispered one of the guards.

"Is she behind the young lady?" asked another, in a louder voice. Dwarf-women were even shorter than their male counterparts, after all.

Trumpkin's red eyebrows furrowed. "No, not _behind_ her." He rolled his eyes. "That _is_ her."

Peter fought against a chuckle of surprise. Although he didn't know Trumpkin, he too had been expecting a lady-dwarf, from all he'd heard. As it happened, somebody thoughtlessly tossed a heavy bundle that looked like a bedroll but felt like wrapped iron upon contact, into the carriage he was riding in and it landed heavily in his lap, making his pulled-up knees smart like anything. The sudden pain kept him from commenting or blinking dumbly.

Doctor Cornelius, his very existence the result of a dwarf marrying a human (his mother being a black dwarf from the northern mountains), smiled kindly at the lady and gave his congratulations and greetings. Her returning facial expression, full of the joy of being accepted, was so pure and kindly that he thought he understood then exactly why Trumpkin loved this lass.

One more cynical person, an adviser of Queen Susan's, muttered about the oddity of the couple and what the other courtiers would think, not only of a human and a dwarf marrying, but also of said dwarf's bride being half his age at best.

Tumnus laughed. "I know what they will think."

Heads turned to look at him.

"Lucky dwarf," he finished.

Laughter roared. And in the direction of those who still muttered that it was unseemly-she a young human, he a grouchy dwarf quickly passing the prime of his life-Trumpkin said, dryly, "Some people are so intolerant."

The journey picked up again and went on and on, for what felt longer and more taxing by the day for Peter in the carriage.

Then there came a morning they were traveling in such bitter cold that Peter thought an icicle would grow out of his nose.

It was a bad day for practically everyone. Even the twins-Lucy included-seemed to be in a difficult mood. Trumpkin muttered words Peter did not think he wanted to know the meaning of under his breath, the servants were less decorous than usual, and Tumnus was uncharacteristically snappish with anyone who spoke to him.

Trumpkin's betrothed, whose name was Lady Adeline, burst into tears at the drop of a hat that day, and several guards and knights had made her sob steadily from offense by their own grumpy offhanded answers to any question she dared ask on that unpleasant morning.

Susan was the worst of the lot. _Everything_ upset her; and the twins were as inhuman monsters in her over-tired eyes. The love she felt for them didn't prick at her; she was too cross to let it. Everything they did, she blamed them for without lenience of any degree and came down hard, causing Edmund to pull such dreadful faces that Susan had him taken forcibly down from his horse, by means of the most strong-armed of the servants, and spanked with a wooden rod.

Adeline started crying all over again, causing Trumpkin to say, "Dear Aslan, Woman! Do stop it! Nobody has hurt _you_."

Asher winced when he saw how Edmund was limping after his spanking. He was not cruelly beaten, not brutally whipped in the least, for even at her angriest Susan would have never ordered, much less consented to _watch_, such a thing; it was the effect of the biting cold against the minor bruises and smarting the spanking had resulted in that made him wobble so, which his elder half-sister had not taken into account in her unstable mood.

And if Adeline had cried, it was nothing to_ Lucy's_ reaction. She screamed so loudly that the hand of the servant holding her back from rushing over and ripping the rod out of the hands of the person ordered to spank her twin had to be gently clamped over her mouth several times. Otherwise, anyone passing their traveling party would have thought there was a nothing sure of a _murder _being committed, the way she was shouting.

Maya howled at the top of her voice; Maugrim gave a continuous low growl.

Still, one could not say Edmund was easily humbled. In his hardness, he never shed even a single tear, and he got right back on Phillip's back as if nothing had happened when the spanking was finished. He refused to let Lucy comfort him, twisting his neck and blinking back at her with indifferent annoyance when she made frantic reference in their twin-speak to what had just taken place, never-minding that she took his side entirely.

Peter took his side, too, though he vaguely understood where Susan had come from in the matter as well.

Unfortunately, he had a poor manner of voicing his feelings, causing the queen to assume he was taking Edmund's side over hers for no reason at all, and she was even more condensing around him than usual.

This came to a head when, in the coldest hour, a freezing fog turning his bones into popsicles under his borrowed cloak, Peter asked-in a weary croak, his voice faint-if there was any chance of stopping at an inn they were coming into sight of.

"No," said Susan, who'd had, till that exact moment when Peter asked, every intention of stopping. "We will ride on. The sooner we get to Cair, the better." _The sooner we get home, the sooner Doctor Cornelius can give this lout a new wardrobe and send him away._

To everyone else kept warm from riding, this was not so bad, but Peter got colder and colder, his fingers going from scarlet to a purplish-blue that bordered on violet.

"Please can't we stop?" he croaked out. "Or can't I ride with someone?"

Peridan offered to let him climb onto his horse for a bit, but Susan rebuffed the offer. "I forbid it. He's fortunate to even _be_ here!"

"I don't h-h-happen to s-s-see it that way!" snapped Peter, his teeth chattering.

"He has got plenty of things to keep him warm. Tell him not to complain so much." Susan gave Snowflake a firm kick to get her horse moving at a faster trot.

"Susan..." said Tumnus. "He is only a year older than you, and apparently unaccustomed to this sort of travel... Don't you think we should...?"

"_No_," she hissed.

When they stopped at last, several hours later, at much more distant inn than the first, Peter had lost all feeling in his body. He had no mirror, so he couldn't tell for certain, but he knew his lips must have been a vivid blue. He trembled and coughed.

The others got off their horses and headed straight for the inn, but Susan, handing Snowflake's halter to the nearest servant, noticed Peter did not climb out of the carriage to do the same, as did Lucy and Edmund.

Lucy whimpered and clung to Edmund's arm for support, when she saw Peter looking so sickly. She had been a fortunate child in that, for all her elder half-sister's faults in raising her when it came to other things, she had never been exposed to seeing first-hand grievous illnesses or injuries. She was the sort of child who, if she _had _seen such things before, would have been brave and a great help, but as it was-seeing only something unknown and feeling frightened as any seven year old would-she stood as if paralyzed.

It was Susan who needed to take charge. "Peter?"

His eyes, half-closed, looked up at her with disdain. "If I die," he wheezed, uncaring at this point that she was royalty. "I blame you." Then he promptly lost consciousness.

Hot tears she would not let fall pricked at the back of Susan's eyes accusingly. She knew she had done wrong. The boy was no threat to her; she'd had no reason but spite to deny him a rest from their traveling when he needed it most. Now he was clearly very sick-he might even _die_... No, she would not let him. She was going to apologize-_amend_-for this by taking care of him herself.

No servants, just herself and whatever physicians needed to be called in. He was going to get better, and by her own personal hand. She owed him that much. It was the queenly thing to do.

"Tell my servants to help me carry him in at once," she ordered the innkeeper who had come out to see why the queen's company had gone inside and the queen herself was kneeling over a number of odds and ends in the storage carriage, looking pale and guilty.

"Yes, right away, your Majesty."

**AN: Please review.**


	7. Travel part two

**AN: If any of you are currently reading the prequel to this story, written by my friend, Mystic Lover of the Fairytale, I'm sure she would love it if you could at least leave a quick review. She is considering putting the story on hiatus because she's not sure if she has any readers for it. So if any of you are reading that story and have a little extra time on your hands, please leave a comment letting her know you're enjoying all the hard work and effort she's put into writing it! Thanks bunches. Best Wishes from yours truly, LucyCrewe11.**

When Peter opened his eyes the first thing they focused on was a dim, rosy image by the fireplace. A pretty girl with her black hair pulled back, out of her eyes, by a ribbon, sitting on a three-legged stool by the fire, lightly stoking the flames with a gold-plated poker.

The ceiling above him was made from slanted wooden beams and there was a big old-fashioned window with heavy crimson drapes pulled over it that cast the whole room into a sort of 'sunset' hue in spite of the fact that it was actually only two hours after noon.

It took Peter a moment to register all this and figure out where he was.

At first, he could remember nothing, and wondered, semi-frantically, why he was not in his bedroom at the professor's house. The black-haired girl reminded him of somebody, though he couldn't quite think _who_.

Suddenly it all came rushing back to him.

_All_ of it; so quickly it made his temples pound: the gnome, the closet, another world, snow, camp, ice-jousting, the twins, a most unpleasant carriage ride, and the queen-the girl tending to the fire.

Yes, of course she was Queen Susan, but it was odd; for a second there, Peter had almost thought she was somebody else-somebody he had seen-perhaps only briefly-before, yet could not put a name to.

Turning round, she discovered he was awake. "Oh." She put her hands behind her back, which was straighter than the poker she had just been using on the fire, and walked towards his bedside. "I see you're awake."

"Yes," he said, stiffly, remembering how mean she had been to him.

"I'm sorry," she said, her tone a mite forced but also truly sincere. "I should have stopped...or let you ride with someone...I was...wrong..."

"Where am I?" he asked.

"We're at an inn." Susan didn't mean to sound patronizing, she meant to be informative, but her voice still had a faint ring of the former.

"Where are your servants?"

"Not in here," she answered. "I wouldn't let them help me unless I absolutely needed an extra pair of hands. I thought, given what happened, it would be best if I took care of you myself."

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Two days," she told him. "I've let some of the others go on ahead. Lord Asher and Trumpkin and the Lady Adeline, most of my advisers, along with some guards, have already gone. Lord Perdian, Caspian, and Catalina would have stayed, but Doctor Cornelius insisted that you were in safe hands and there was no reason they shouldn't return to Cair Paravel more or less on schedule. Lucy wouldn't go on if you weren't coming-she was frightened by how you took sick-and Edmund wouldn't go without _her._ They both wanted Tumnus, so he's still here, too." Susan didn't bother mentioning that _she'd _wanted Tumnus to stay as well; she felt less alone and at odds with her duties and her role as queen when he was continuously around.

"You know, you could have_ killed _me," said Peter, slowly, letting that sink in.

"I didn't know you would faint," Susan replied, rather awkwardly. "Or get _that _cold. I thought... I thought you would have some discomfort, certainly, and maybe I was a_ little_ glad of it...at...at the time, but I didn't know you would really fall ill."

"What did_ I_ ever do to_ you_?"

"Nothing," she said. "I mean, nothing exactly. You intruded, but I shouldn't have-"

"_Intruded_?" cried Peter indignantly, sitting up and causing a warm compress he hadn't realized was there to fall from his forehead and into his lap. "I was _invited_. Doctor Cornelius invited me, _and _got your approval."

"He had my _consent_, begrudgingly," murmured Susan weakly. "Not my_ approval_."

Peter cocked his head at her as if to ask, "Is that _really_ what you want to add here, given what you put me through? Is that strictly necessary?"

"Peter, I..." Her throat closed. She didn't know what to say.

How could she tell him that, horrid and unfeeling as she might _sound_, she really had worried about him terribly over the last two days? That her apology was so stiff because she had gone over it again and again, thinking how she would begin to express her regret, and it had become so frustratingly rehearsed that she couldn't stand saying those words anymore and so...it came out...it came out...all _wrong_...not right; not right at all?

See, it had all begun selfishly. At first, she had worried only that she was little better than a murderer, and was frantic to clear her name and conscience by looking after him. Only, gradually, her gentle nature, which (although Peter might have doubted it at this point, knowing her only as a snob with an admittedly decent sob-story) was actually her _first_ nature, took over.

She was an almost motherly person-tender as could possibly be-when she set her mind to it.

For all her griping and scolding and punishing, not even Tumnus had a full track record matching hers when it came to soothing fevers and taking splinters out of the knees and arms (and even, occasionally, under rather humourous circumstances, the backsides) of the twins.

When they were in trouble or wanted something, Edmund and Lucy went to Tumnus. He wasn't too strict with them, so they knew they had a better chance of success; especially since Susan had made it a habit of trying to give them nothing they wanted that was not an absolute _need_ unless they asked in English (this was done in desperate hopes of getting them to speak properly), which of course they would not do. Tumnus simply knew them so well that they didn't need to speak clearly; their body language was usually enough.

However, it was _Susan_ they ran to if they took ill with coughing or vomiting or other uncomfortable symptoms. And it was _Susan _whose bed Lucy might seek out, if for some reason she took it, on the odd night, in her head that she didn't wish to wake Edmund, after a nightmare. Edmund sought out nobody at all after his typical night-terrors; and the other sort, the less than ordinary kind, he would confide in no one but Lucy. Still, it _was _his elder half-sister who cleaned his endless scraped knees and bandaged this or that gash on his forehead and the odd cut on his brow.

Now the young queen was determined to look after Peter and, whatever one might make of her motives from the start to the finish, you couldn't say she'd done a shady job of it. His chills had stopped; his body temperature regulating. There was even, she could tell, especially since he was overtly upset with her, colour back in his face.

But before she could untwist her tongue and figure out the right thing to say, to make it right between them, there was a knock at the door, followed by the scrape of a goat-hoof, and Tumnus came in carrying a brass tub.

"I heard voices," he said. "I thought perhaps, if he was feeling up to it, Peter might like to take a hot bath."

"Master Tumnus, you were supposed to be making sure the twins had _their_ bathes," said Susan, biting onto her lower lip.

"It's easier making them take baths at Cair," sighed the faun. "We know all their prime escape routes at home."

"They got away again," Susan noted.

"Not lost," Tumnus assured her. "I'm under the impression they're in up in a hayloft, you know, in the stables out back."

"And you can't get at them?"

"Well," laughed the faun, "they're smart little stinkers, and they appear to have taken the liberty of climbing up high and pulling the ladder up behind them."

Susan shook her head. "Very well then, Peter could use a bath."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" snapped Peter.

"That you smell bad after two days of being unconscious and the traveling before that," she replied curtly, blunt as anything.

"Well!" growl-exclaimed Peter.

"Oh, please don't stay cross," said Susan imploringly. "I know I've done wrong. And I've been trying and trying to apologize, and to make it Pax, only you keep giving me that unmoved look of yours and it's making me so angry."

"You're not helping yourself," Peter told her.

"What can I do to make it up to you?" she asked. _Besides_, she added, a bit self-righteously, in her head, _fearing for you and tending to your every need for two days straight, I mean_?

"I don't know," said Peter.

If she had not been such a well brought up queen, taught to keep her emotions more inward than otherwise, she might have stamped her foot.

Meanwhile, Tumnus had warmed enough water for Peter's bath over the fireplace and was pouring jugs of it into the brass tub, which he had laid down by the hearth.

"Well, I shall leave you to wash, then," said Susan at last, whiter than usual in the face, either with rage or else disappointment-possibly more directed at herself than Peter.

Peter rose up from the bed. "Wait a minute. Come here."

She came. "Yes? What do you want?"

Lifting his knee up, he flipped her over it, making her somersault right into the brass tub.

She landed on her bottom, as he had fully intended her to, and nothing was hurt save for her pride, but she was soaking wet, and the whole back of her dress was doused and dripping. The the ends of her long black hair were visibly dampened.

"All right." Peter gave her a friendly smirk, completely free from his previous resentment. "_Now_ I forgive you."

Tumnus chuckled involuntarily, in spite of the look Susan gave him.

The good that came out of this little episode, though, was that Peter and Susan were almost never directly mean to one another again. Susan had learned her lesson, and Peter was not malicious.

Also, the faun's laughter was contagious.

A few moments later, they were all in hysterics-Susan included. The queen laughed as she hadn't laughed in ages. Not a polite titter of amusement, but the full, belly-shaking, laugh of a child who has been showed up by someone they-in their childish way of forgiving-have, in a single instant, inexplicably become best friends with.

This instant friendship most often occurs only between two men, for women are a little different. Men will hit each other till bruises show, then crack up and go out and buy one another spirits; and after that, they're liable to love each other as brothers so dear they'd die for one another in battle. The majority of women will hate being made fools of till their dying day and may go as far as to never even _glance_ at the person who humiliated them ever again, as long as they live. They can be every day of eighty-five and still recall how so-and-so insulted them when they were naught a day older than twenty. At best, they will pretend to be courteous and then be liable to shove their so-called friend off a bridge if the situation presents itself. So the chance that this would happen in a relationship between one boy and one girl, so different from one another, is slim enough, but there are exceptions to this rule. And, as it happened, Peter and Susan were one such exception. Neither could, in their own rights, find it in them to stay mad at each other. And, as often happens between people who share such an unexplainable, understandably rare, instantaneous bond of this kind, they truly would have-after that-died for each other.

They were as kindred to each other following what happened as if they had been raised together as brother and sister. It was a friendship formed, not from good reason or mutual qualities, but created from the better side of human nature.

These children, of no more than thirteen and twelve, had fallen, perhaps foolishly, into friendship as some older people fall too quickly into romantic love.

The twins, evidently having come down from the chilly hayloft (back inside, where it was warm) as soon as they were sure Tumnus had given up trying to catch them, were playing with their wolves in the hallway when Susan came out of Peter's room.

Lucy was engaged in a mad game of tug-of-war with Maya, using an old giant's sock that had been forgotten at Cair Paravel when the giant ambassador left them three months ago and then snatched up by herself and Edmund as an item not of practicality in the least, but certainly of interest.

Maugrim, on his hind legs, had his paws on Edmund's back, leaning over the boy's shoulder to watch the girl and the other wolf play-fight with the over-sized sock.

Edmund's pupils slid over to his soaked elder sister. "Tou Begmatuo."

Literally translated, all Edmund had actually said was, "You wet," but Lucy's cackle of laughter, and the shaking shoulders of the wolves who had, by some means Susan thought a mite too uncanny, always seemed to understand whatever the twins were saying, made his painfully simple statement, that in practically any other language would not even have been grammatically correct, never-mind _clever_, incredibly witty.

"Yes, yes," growled Susan hurriedly; "To-_wh_ Be-_ge_-nat-oo. Whatever_ that_ means."

Her bad imitation of their language and her horrid pronunciation was the last straw for Lucy, who was now holding onto her sides and laughing so hard she wheezed and panted for breath. Both wolves were laughing along with her. And Edmund had a big grin on his face.

They gave Peter another day to rest and build up his strength before they began traveling again; and, thankfully, it was much easier going this time around. Susan had arranged for Peter to have his own mount, which she'd proudly presented him with in the stables when they were getting ready to leave.

It was a beautiful white horse without so much as a speck of gray or black, or any other colour, to be found in its gleaming coat or in its mane; from the middle of its forehead there sprouted a silvery-white horn that glistened like a stick-shaped crystal in the filmy dust-specked sunlight of the inn's stables.

"A unicorn," said Peter dumbly, his voice flat.

Perhaps he sounded a bit hesitant or insulted in a masculine manner, as any boy presented with such a beast might initially sound, because Susan, her face falling, said, "You don't like him." Her tone was noticeably discouraged.

"No, that's not..."

"It's a great honour to ride a unicorn. See, there aren't many rideable breeds of them, and the _talking_ ones generally find it-except when strictly unavoidable-a serious offense to have to carry a rider." Susan had interrupted him, though she hadn't meant to; she only wanted a chance to explain. "Even a rideable unicorn _mare _would be a great honour for the high-ranking royalty. This is a tamed _stallion_. I thought you would be pleased."

"I _do_ like him," Peter assured her, warming to the creature, not necessarily because of what Susan had just said about honour and all that rot, but because the lovely creature had nudged his hand with its soft nose and seemed to be taking a liking to him. "But I don't know a whole lot about riding, and you just said yourself he's very valuable..."

"Pish," Susan told him. "Don't worry about it."

They rode along under a gray-dotted, ice-blue sky, Susan keeping her Snowflake on the right side of Peter's unicorn so that they could talk (Susan and Peter, that is, naturally, not the horse and the unicorn).

Since the tension between them had largely vanished, they found it easy to talk about their lives and likes and dislikes with each other.

"So you really have lights that don't require oil or flames in your world?" Susan asked, amazed. "What powers them?"

"Electricity," Peter told her.

"I've never heard of it."

"I didn't think you would. Things here seem pretty medieval."

"What is _Medieval_?"

"It's like..." How to explain? "How things were a long, long time ago in my world; sort of like things are here..."

"I see," she said; though, really, she didn't.

"I wonder if this world will be like anything like mine when it reaches the twentieth century," mused Peter.

Susan shrugged and, reaching over, helped Peter pick up the reins, which had accidentally slipped from his fingers.

An hour later, they'd somehow gotten into a jaw about the first world war. Nothing of the sort had ever happened in Narnia; there had been wars, of course, but not like the massive horror Peter described to Susan, whose eyes widened, utterly bemused.

"What I still don't understand," she said, shaking her head, "is why the country you belonged to-before you moved to..._News Pork_, was it? Well, anyway, that country...erm, England... Why did _it _join in the war?"

"That's a bit hard to explain."

"Try."

"Um, all right. Well, because an Austrian was killed by a Serb in Bosnia, and that meant war."

"By why would _that_ mean war?"

"Because of Russia," Peter said.

Susan's forehead crinkled. "_What_?"

"Because Russia supported Serbia and Austria supported Bosnia. And they thought Austria would invade Serbia, which would lead Russians to invade Austria."

"But how...?" Her head ached.

"And Germany would support Austria." Peter wasn't even sure he was explaining it right, but he was doing his best. "Also, I think, something about France... They could have done something to Belgium, and England supported them, so that's why they went to war." He scrunched up his nose. "I _think_."

"No offense," said Susan, rolling her eyes, "but the kings and queens in your world sound like complete imbeciles."

"Trust me," chuckled Peter, "you wouldn't be the first to think so." He reached up and stroked his chin. "Come to think of it, perhaps _that's _what started the first world war."

Lucy and Edmund, ridding Phillip alongside on Peter's left, gave him a puzzled look. They were as confused as Susan by the tale he had been telling.

"That's a _terrible _story," Lucy decided, calling her opinion out-in English-to Peter.

Edmund said nothing, but he did nod in vague agreement.

There was silence for a while, followed by a conversation between Susan and Peter about their families and closest friends.

Peter, during this conversation, mentioned his friends in England, and Susan asked if his friend Lola had been his 'intended'.

It took Peter a moment to figure out what she meant, then he laughed, "Oh, good lord, no! We're just friends."

"And the girl from New York..."

"Mashka and I are just friends, too," he informed her.

"I see."

"What about you?"

"How do you mean?"

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"A what?"

What was the term _she'd_ used? "An _intended_?"

"Oh," she said, comprehension dawning. "Yes, as a matter of fact I do."

"Is it that Lord Asher chap?"

Susan's face recoiled. "Oh, dear Aslan, _no_!" She shuddered. "No, naturally not." After a short pause, she said, "I'm betrothed to Prince Rabadash of Calormen. Have been since I was nine or ten, in fact."

Peter happened to look over at the twins, whose faces filled with disgust at the mention of the prince's name. It wasn't much of a stretch to conclude they didn't like him-whoever he was.

"What's he like?" Peter asked.

"Stupid," Lucy answered him, before Susan could open her mouth.

"Lucy!" she protested.

"Well he _is_," she muttered, her English words beginning to revert back to twin-speak and then slowly becoming inaudible.

"He and the twins don't exactly see eye-to-eye," Susan explained graciously. "He and Lucy in particular don't get on well."

This confused Peter greatly. He could _somewhat _understand a person not 'getting on well' with Edmund, who was a bit anti-social and, along with that wolf of his, could be a bit of an overwhelming presence, but the thought of anyone not liking _Lucy _was all Greek to him; utterly unfathomable.

"Well, Lucy put a dead mouse in his bed the first time he came to visit."

"It was alive when I put it there," Lucy told Peter. "I didn't know it was going to die. I think _Rabadash_ probably killed it and then just _told _everyone it was dead when he got there." She sniffled at the end of her sentence, and Peter could tell Lucy felt sorriest for the mouse.

"Anyway," Susan pressed on, "I'm certain Edmund put her up to it, and I tried to explain this to Prince Rabadash, but he was greatly offended."

Peter looked behind, to where Tumnus was trailing at Phillip's rear with Coalblack, to see the faun's reaction. He betrayed little, but his facial expression _was _undeniably sad.

There was something deeper here; Peter could sense it. Something tragic. Something that related to Susan being queen so young and the twins being born the children of a witch. He wanted to figure it all out-to _help_-if he could, but he kept thinking of what Doctor Cornelius had told him on his second day in Narnia, after instructing him to keep what he knew to himself.

_You might find yourself in a precarious situation. _

**AN: Please Review.**


	8. Rhindon

"There it is," said Tumnus, his tone falling appropriately-almost breathlessly-on the last syllable as he uttered 'is'.

_There it is_, thought Peter, mentally echoing the faun's heart-felt homey sentiments. "_Cair Paravel_," he finished aloud.

He couldn't actually see the castle as of yet, Coalblack and Edmund's horse Phillip currently in front of him, blocking his view, but there was a strange feeling of expectation washing over him. He heard ocean waves and knew that the castle must be near the sea. He had not been to the sea-any sea-in a while. The sound of the surf breaking-coupling with that thick briny scent of ocean air-made him suddenly feel brave and adventurous.

A castle by the sea...

Something inside of Peter snapped; there was this queer emotion, almost like a whole other personality inside of his head, jumping up and down to get his attention behind his half-closed eyelids. It was crying, "Look, look! What do I remind you of?"

The view came into sight as Tumnus and Edmund's horses went down the pass, careful not to slip on any slick icy patches, and onto the frost-dotted, pure white-gold sand. Peter saw Cair Paravel clearly.

Even without the darkness of nighttime and the stormy lightning, he recognized it. He had been there before; not in reality-not in any of the universes he consciously knew of and remembered-but in a dream. _The _dream.

His eyes flickered over to Susan on Snowflake, blinking in the glare of the sunlight shining off of the water and the freezer-burn like casing on the sand.

Suddenly, he pondered what might have, under different circumstances, been obvious from the first. The little girl of five years... The babies in their silver cradle... The little (or he should think, _littler_) queen in the satin slippers... Her, _Susan_? And the babies...twins as likely as not... Could they have been _Edmund and Lucy_?

And, just as suddenly, he was certain it was-that they _were_.

Susan, Edmund, and Lucy were indeed the ones from his dream, and this _was_ the right castle.

"Peter," said Susan, taking in his expression. "Are you well?"

"I've had a set-back," Peter murmured, as if in a trance brought on by shock.

"It is rather overwhelming, isn't it?" she said, sounding truly happy. "Everyone who visits for the first time says it is, but for me it's just home. I can't imagine losing breath at it any more than at my own reflection; it's as familiar to me as that." She glanced over her shoulder at Tumnus. "But Master Tumnus always seems in awe for some reason, even though it is his home, too."

Tumnus smirked. "Some things are worth gawking at even after they become commonplace, your Majesty."

Edmund let out a great _whoop_ and alighted jerkily from Phillip's back, dragging Lucy down with him. Within seconds, the twins were running along the shoreline, their clothes, knitted gloves, and woolen stockings quickly becoming a magnet for frozen sand. Lucy's little riding habit and soft fur-lined hood were soon damp with chilly sea-spray.

"Oh, Master Tumnus, don't let them go off like that!" cried Susan, snapping to attention. "They're wont to catch their deaths... Get back here, _both _of you!"

Edmund, catching her voice on the wind, turned and stuck his tongue out at her.

Maugrim howled; Maya let out a happy bark. Both wolves raced gleefully after the children, leaving their prints behind in the hard sand.

"I _mean_ it! Get back here!" the young queen tried again, though she knew it was in vain.

"Naoh!"

"Yeah, Naoh!"

Peter didn't need to understand their twin-speak to translate that. 'No' is a universally accepted favorite word of rebellious children-whatever language they speak-aged anywhere from two to twenty-five. And the word is typically directed at an authority figure who the utterer _knows_ can make them rue using it to begin with; but they use it anyway.

When they'd finally hustled up the twins (Susan having to threaten to _tie_ Edmund and Lucy to their horse like prisoners of war the next time they went anywhere), they made the final stretch of the journey across the shoreline and up the cliff-like terrain to the castle.

Doctor Cornelius and Caspian met them at the front doors.

When the stable-hands arrived to take the horses, Caspian reached up and helped Susan down.

"Thank you, Cousin."

"No problem." He smiled and handed the reins to the nearest stable-boy.

"Here you are, at last!" Catalina appeared, followed timidly by Adeline. "The tailors have a surprise for you. Just _wait _till you see the new dress they've finished!" She grasped Susan's wrist, gave a Peter a friendly 'nice to see you again, and in better health' glance, and then dragged the queen inside as if they were not royalty and nobles but ordinary giggling school-girls running round a dormitory at the beginning of a new term.

"Do you think that excitable conversation is coming to an end anytime soon?" Caspian laughed, once they were out of ear-shot.

"It's about_ clothes,_" said Tumnus; "knowing Susan, there may not _be_ an end to it."

"Caspian, would you be so kind as to show Peter to his sleeping-chamber?" said Doctor Cornelius

"Certainly," he replied. He nodded at Peter, gesturing with his chin for him to 'come along, then'. "Wait until you see this."

In spite of that aforementioned statement, Peter couldn't help not truly expecting to be out-awed by whatever room they were putting him up in, as_ all_ of Cair Paravel was holding him spellbound, practically speechless. Because, as it was, mixed in with the awe, the twinge of eerie fear, and the dread he felt gaining a choke hold on his heart, there was another feeling, one of pure joy, that was coming over him as he followed the young Lord Caspian through skillfully carved archways and passed endless stained-glass windows depicting revered long-departed royals, white stags, tawny lions, and blood-red roses that looked like rubies. It was as if the castle itself was also wave, very like the greenish ones breaking on the shoreline outside, and Peter couldn't resist letting it wash over him; even if it meant being drowned. But when at last, after several stairs that would seem to be going round and round in a spiral, they reached the chamber, he would come to find that Caspian had not been exaggerating.

Although, at first, aside from it being overtly grand, complete with scarlet carpeting that looked like the new stuff workmen lay down in movie theaters, before litterbugs who can't keep their extra-large tubs of double-butter popcorn under control stamped through it, and an oak wardrobe, carved with images of maple leaves and pine cones, so spacious inside that a child as old as nine or ten could have had a comfortable club-house in there, and the fact that it was circular (this was because it was actually inside of a tower) instead of squire with four distinctive walls, there was nothing very special Peter could see about it.

"It's very..." he tried to think of something to say. "Eh... _Round_."

"This is actually my favorite room here at Cair," said Caspian, walking in through the (surprisingly narrow) door before Peter and unlatching the heavily curved green-painted shutters on what seemed to be the only window.

It was a breathtaking view, facing, not the beautiful-yet expected-eastern ocean, but a gleaming, currently silver, forest that, because of the placement of the castle on the cliff, you would have hardly even realized was there.

"You can see owls, sometimes, at night." Caspian took a step back from the window, as if to re-admire the view properly. "Hawks and falcons in the daytime."

Peter came all the way inside and stood in the middle of the chamber, admiring the clock atop the curled fireplace's mantel, the round, bubbled glass over the fireplace itself, and the gold-and-manilla coloured covering on the wall directly behind the clock that might have been something like wallpaper.

"Look up," Caspian suggested.

Peter did so, and had to whistle to hold back what would have been a gasp if he had released the involuntary sound with his mouth all the way open and not merely puckered.

Above him, the ceiling appeared to be painted with clouds so real they were almost moving in a slow pace above him in a dimming winter's sky. He thought it must have been something to do with foil placement or colour blending that gave the illusion of motion, but then, in the darker part of the 'painting' he caught a glimpse of his half-Telmarine companion's olive forehead and dark eyes reflected back down at them. Then, at last, he knew what it was. This was not the work of a painter, but rather a ceiling-and roof-made of glass. There were a few panels of thin silver that arched out from the middle, holding all the glass in place, which Peter had mistakenly believed to be dividers in the original wood of the structure. The sky above him was very much the real thing.

"It is most beautiful at night," Caspian informed him. "When the stars come out. Doctor Cornelius and I once used this room for an astronomy lesson when I was a child. See, normally he would wake me and we would go to an open air tower on the other side of the castle-there is a telescope there. But, one night, during a week I had caught a bad chill and the physicians all said I should not be exposed to night air till it passed, this is where we came."

Peter took the backpack he'd brought with him from his own world and tossed it down onto the bed.

"I will leave you to settle in." With that, Caspian left, closing the door behind him.

That night, Peter couldn't sleep, for he discovered that while Caspian was right about the stars being beautiful as they shined down through the glass dome above his head, no one had thought of the practical side of having such a window. Most of the time, it was a pleasure, but on a full moon, when the white moonlight came in and lit up everything as clearly as if it had been the middle of a very cloudy afternoon, or as if lightning during a storm had struck but the light it gave off refused to disappear in favor of the night sky's rightful blackness after its moment of brilliancy was finished, it was hard to sleep.

And as there were no curtains up there, and no ladder to reach that high even if there _had_ been, there was nothing Peter could do about it.

He did try pulling the covers over his head, but they were so thick that it sort of made it difficult to _breathe_ under all of them.

Unable to sleep, he kicked off the rich, heavy covers and got up.

Quickly, he rummaged through his backpack and took out the flashlight. He knew a little about castles in general from reading; enough, at least, to figure the rest of Cair Paravel was not likely to be as bright as his tower-room. Moreover, he remembered the corridor 'littler Susan' had been running down in his dream being extremely dark, even with candlesticks and lanterns lit.

He took also his digital watch, strapping it round his wrist, though he felt quite sure it wasn't going to be very useful. If there was a time-difference between New York and England, there would presumably be one between New York and a_ completely separate universe_; but he wore it anyway, and even attempted to reset it to match the time on clock on the mantle.

There was no Mrs. Macready to stop him from exploring here, though he thought when it came to a few of Susan's sterner-faced advisers he would be gladder _not_ to meet up with them during his presumptuous exploration.

The only real problem was how to find his way back afterward. There had to be a fairly easy solution; it was simple indoor navigating, not Quantum Physics, for pity's sake! There was an answer; it was just not jumping out at him as quickly as he wished it would.

Earlier, sometime after supper, shortly before he initially climbed into the bed tried to get to sleep, a servant who looked rather like Tumnus, only even more goaty (if that was possible) had come in and brought Peter tea and biscuits. He'd drank the tea, but only eaten one biscuit, not having felt terribly hungry (supper portions at Cair Paravel were very generous). And there it was: his answer. He could leave a trail of crumbs, like in Hansel and Gretel; except there were no birds in the castle (he hoped, anyway) to eat his trail, so the plan had a better chance of success in Narnia than in its source material; even if it wasn't exactly flawless, he_ hardly _expected to be confronted by a cannibalistic witch who wanted to eat him.

The reasons Peter stopped exploring after reaching the throne room might have seemed important in the retelling of events, and there was-for a time-some disagreement on this. Some insisted it was_ destiny_-pure fate in action. They theorized that something inside of him, knowing what his conscious mind could not, held him from going any further. Others, more cynical, stated he didn't know it _was_ the throne room and, mistakenly believing he heard someone coming, quite simply darted in quickly to avoid being caught. The _real_ reason he stopped, however, was mainly because he ran out of biscuit crumbs less than a half-foot away from the throne room's doors.

No one was about, so Peter, looking both ways, opened the doors just wide enough for him to pass through.

The candles in the throne room were all unlit, and there were no lanterns in sight. However, as the room was more spacious than the corridor, the windows more plentiful, and the moon as full as it was, he could see everything perfectly fine. Well enough, even, to switch off his flashlight.

All of the windows were adorned with peacock feathers. Two elegant thrones were on top of a dais on the far end. Behind the thrones, there was something that looked like a stained-glass design but was more sturdy and stone-like somehow.

For a split-second Peter glimpsed what he took for a white statue in one of the thrones, and wondered if it was a monument to some old ruler, if perhaps that was why a second throne had been installed, but as that throne was somewhat blocked by a shadow created via the placement of a pillar and the way the moonlight hit it, he switched the flashlight back on to get a better look.

"By the Lion!" shrieked a familiar girl's voice. "What are you shining in my eyes?"

Peter lowered the flashlight. It wasn't a statue at all; it was Susan, wearing a white nightgown and a knitted white shawl, sitting on her own throne. "Sorry."

"I was wondering when you were going to notice you weren't alone in here," Susan snorted, standing up. "Why _are_ you here, anyway?"

"Why are _you_?" Peter asked.

"It's _my_ throne room."

Fair enough, but... "You don't hold audience with your subjects in the dead of night dressed in your nightclothes, do you?"

She laughed at that, pulling her shawl around her tighter. "No, of course not. It's just... Sometimes, when I can't sleep, I like to come in here and sort of _rehearse_, so I'm prepared." Letting out a light sigh, she added, "It's not easy being queen, you know."

"Yes, I'm sure it's tedious telling everyone what to do and knowing they have to do it or you could have them beheaded."

"_Please_." Susan cocked her head at him. "It's not like that. I rule under the care of advisers; most new laws I have to run by them before I can pass. And I'll have you know, I've never ordered anybody to be beheaded."

"Here's hoping I'm not the first," Peter joked.

"Oh, don't worry," Susan said, playing along. "I'm sure the head-choppers have practiced extensively using grapefruit."

"Funny."

"Thank you."

"So, this is really what you do when you can't sleep? Pretend you're addressing subjects. Sit on a throne in a dark room."

"What's wrong with that?"

"It just doesn't sound too fun, that's all."

"I rarely have time for fun." Her voice sounded strained. Peter wondered if she might cry. "Between _attempting _to bring the twins up properly, and keeping everything in Narnia running as smoothly as possible, and...oh, _everything_ else..." She shook it off. "Well, I shouldn't complain; I had a lovely two hours with Lady Catalina, Lady Adeline, and the tailors today. I'm to have three new gowns by my next birthday. One is already finished-they hurried it as a surprise for me, but it's still absolutely splendid-and I'm to wear it perhaps as early as next month, if there are any feasts or other grand occasions."

Peter nodded politely, but he found it hard to understand what was so fun about trying on clothes and standing around to be measured.

"Let me see that light thing you're holding." She was still somewhat transfixed by the flashlight. "It's a right funny lantern. Where does the oil go in?"

"It doesn't run on oil," Peter told her, handing over the flashlight so she could examine it.

"Incredible." She flicked it on and off. "I've never seen its equal. No fire, no oil... And so_ bright_."

Peter tried his best not to laugh at Susan while she experimentally waved the flashlight around like it was a lightsaber.

"You ought to keep it to yourself, though," she warned, turning it off. "Someone might think it to be witchcraft."

Peter shrugged. "What's with that wall?"

"It's a hidden door, actually."

"Cool."

"Cool?" she repeated, confused.

"I mean, it's interesting. What's behind it?"

"Nothing," Susan answered too quickly, in a tone that gave away her bluff entirely.

"There _is_ something there."

"It's_ supposed_ to be a secret."

"Well, then you shouldn't have brought it up," Peter said. "You _have _to tell me now."

"I don't _have_ to do anything," Susan pointed out. "But I don't see that it could do any harm, letting you see it. Don't _tell_ anyone, though, all right?" She handed him the flashlight back. "Now, let me see. Where's that little chip in the wall?" Pressing her fingers to the wall, she moved her hand carefully till she found what she was seeking. Then the odd design fell backwards, turning into a door. "Come along."

Peter flicked the switch on the flashlight; they were going to need light to see where they were going. For, beyond the secret door, it was pitch black.

Susan going in front and Peter directly behind her, holding up the light, they went down a stone-and-metal staircase that felt a touch rickety towards the bottom.

At the bottom of the stairs, there was, spread out, an underground basement-like chamber. It must have been where old treasures and portraits were kept; because Peter saw glints of gold and gems every which way he turned, and there was also an old painting gathering dust, turned on its side, in one corner, right behind two old candlesticks and a low, half-rotted, wooden dresser that looked like it had been made for a dwarf.

"Who's that?" Peter squinted and tilted his head, trying to focus on the portrait.

Susan shuddered. "She was my stepmother, before father died."

_The witch-queen Jadis_, Peter thought, remembering what Doctor Cornelius had told him, _Edmund and Lucy's Mum_. But he didn't dare voice this thought out loud; not until he understood things here in Narnia a little better, anyway. It mightn't be safe to speak of such a thing ahead of time; Doctor Cornelius had warned him of as much.

The woman-witch-in the painting was beautiful-white skin, dark gold hair skillfully braided-but there was something terrifying about her face as well, so hard and unmovable. A person who bore an expression like that, so truly terrible, would never be able to feel compassion for another living creature. And her eyes were a bit off, like there was something the painter could not capture, dared not even _try_ to capture, but couldn't completely avoid hinting at despite his best efforts.

"Whoever painted your stepmother must have had a strong stomach," Peter noted grimly. "A very strong stomach."

Susan half-smiled. "I think I agree."

Peter turned round and saw, propped up on its hilt atop a stone pedestal, a most handsome greatsword.

"Nice sword," he commented. "Whose is it?

"Rhindon," breathed Susan softly. "It belongs to no one as of now."

Peter approached the sword, eyes wide. "Why not?"

"Because it is meant to be the king's sword," she explained logically. "And there isn't a king at the moment."

"Couldn't you have it?"

"And break tradition?" Susan looked horrified. "Peter, all the _male_ leaders of Narnia have wielded that sword."

"The way you're standing," Peter noticed, "it's almost as if you're afraid to even _touch_ the sword."

"No one except the king is supposed to," she murmured sheepishly. "I told you, it's a Narnian tradition."

Feeling a brief twinge of annoyance at Susan for some reason, Peter reached out and wrapped his right hand around it, fitting his palm comfortably against the hilt. It felt oddly right; almost as if he'd held Rhindon before, though he knew he couldn't have.

It was like the _sword_ knew _him_.

Susan gasped, reaching out and pulling his hand away. "What are you _doing_?"

"Calm down, I didn't knock it over or anything."

"Are you deaf? I said only the _king_ is supposed to touch it!"

"Susan..." He could hear a bit of anger in her voice and, for once, he felt it was justified.

"Let's just go back to the throne room," she said.

"Sure," he agreed holding out the flashlight.

"And when we arrive back there," Susan said, holding her head up primly, her tone of voice cold and biting, "do try to show a little self-control. Don't sit in the king's throne while you're at it."

He blinked at her absently.

"That's the throne next to mine," she told him, slowly, as if he were lacking in intelligence.

"Yeah, got that," Peter snapped.

"Good," she grumped.

"After you, you Majesty."

"Hold that light up higher," she ordered. "Unless you mean to make me fall to my death on the staircase."

"Don't tempt me," Peter muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing." He held the flashlight up higher, as per her orders.

**AN: Reviews welcome.**


	9. The Green Eyed Twin

"Wait a moment, Peter, I'll walk with you."

Peter stopped and turned round to see Lady Catalina approaching.

He had been walking along an open-air corridor that overlooked one of the main courtyards when he heard the lady's request and obliged by standing still until she was caught up to him.

"Lovely day," she commented.

"Not as cold as it's been," Peter admitted, nodding in vague agreement.

As they walked, Catalina fidgeted with a hair ribbon woven into the long side-braid that hung over her left shoulder. "Has Doctor Cornelius said anything to you?"

"Hardly anything since I arrived here a week ago," Peter told her. The old tutor greeted him as politely as anyone when they met, but he'd only seen him perhaps a handful of times; it was very reminiscent, even after only seven days, of his relationship with his great, great uncle. "Why?"

"No reason," said Catalina. "I was only curious. You see, Susan mentioned that the reason you came here was at the request of Doctor Cornelius. I only thought it odd that he shouldn't say much to you after asking that you come. I had half-thought he meant to make a student of you-that you might be in lessons with my brother or something. But there's been no word of such a thing."

"I was told Doctor Cornelius had insisted the crown pay for me to have new clothes." Peter was wearing some of those new clothes at that very moment; a leather vest over a dull black doublet and tights, and a very fine gray wool cape over said vest.

"They suit you," Catalina said graciously, giving him a kindly half-smile.

"Thanks."

Below, from the courtyard, there came the sound of childish laughter and grunting wolves.

Peter glanced downwards and, sure enough, saw Edmund and Lucy running about.

Edmund climbed to the base of the low stone wall that surrounded the edge of the courtyard and walked the length of it like a balance-beam, carefully putting one foot in front of the other. Lucy dumped a small bag of marbles onto the ground, intent on a game of catching about half of them before they loudly made contact with the stone and then lining them up in a row according to size and mismatched colour.

Maugrim took an interest in the marbles and sniffed at them. Edmund leapt down from the wall and joined Lucy in playing with the marbles, lightly reaching out to shove his wolf's snout out of the way. Maya was curled up at Lucy's side like a big dog, her eyes half-closed in a lazy fashion; for what it was worth, the she-wolf seemed very contented.

"I still think they might have fared better if Susan had not separated them," Catalina said softly, shaking her head.

"What do you mean?" Peter asked, furrowing his brow in confusion. "I've rarely seen one without the other." If ever they _were _separated, it was evidently very infrequently.

"Oh, it was about two years ago," Catalina explained, looking down at her shoes and then glancing back up at Peter while she spoke. "They were about five then, and for some reason Susan thought it would be the course of wisdom to separate them for a bit. One of her advisers talked her into it, I believe. They were always together-up to some level of mischief reasonably often, but nothing too bad, ordinary childhood naughtiness, you know-and Susan ended up with this notion that they would be easier to manage if they were apart for a while."

"So what happened?"

"Well, it was all arranged; someone took Lucy in hand one day when she wasn't expecting it; and Edmund had the same treatment, except they took him to Anvard."

"Anvard?"

"That's the castle-the royal court-of Archenland."

Peter nodded; he'd seen Archenland on maps on display, often embroidered into hanging tapestries, during the past week, and so he had a general idea of where that country was.

"Edmund was well looked-after at Anvard, but he wouldn't be managed. Not, you know, that he was difficult; that was rather the worst part. He wasn't. He just sort of sat in whatever chamber they put him in, looking out of the window like an old man. He didn't talk to anyone, though that wasn't much of a change in itself. Truly, I think that's what Susan was hoping for the most in regards to the whole venture; that both twins would begin speaking normally as it progressed."

"But neither of them did?"

"No," she confirmed. "Interestingly, however, Lucy showed signs of progress. She was upset about Edmund not being there for the first few days, and asked for him constantly. Well, to be more precise, she merely said her twin's _name_ in a sad voice every time someone came near, as if she was either hoping it was him or that whomever was approaching would be willing to bring him back from wherever he'd been taken. Nobody told her he was in Archenland; too afraid of how she might react. She thought he was still here at Cair.

"But, if she was distracted from worrying too much about him, as Tumnus could manage-and Susan, too, every once in a while-Lucy seemed all right. She still had Maya with her (Maugrim ran off into the forest somewhere, only returning when Edmund came back), and she liked to play cards or skip rope or go on horseback rides to marketplaces with the servants. She really seemed to be making out all right. Even without her twin constantly by her side.

"Edmund didn't do as well. He showed no interest in anything. They finally wrote Susan a letter imploring her for permission to send him back when, for about four or five days, he wouldn't even get out of bed. Even looking out the window ceased to interest him. They thought he was ill, but both times they sent a physician in to see him it ended poorly."

Peter blinked, interested. "How so?"

"Well, the first time, he was just lying in bed, unresponsive, curled in a fetal position, staring at the wall. The physician couldn't get so much as a grunt of acknowledgment out of him." She sighed. "Then, the second time, the physician claimed that Edmund appeared to be in a right fit and threw anything at reach at him till he vacated the chamber."

There was something deeper there; Peter was sure of it. Something about the twins. It was plain to see they were happier together than apart, but there had to be a _reason _for their despondency and different reactions upon being separated. And a _reason_ for Susan to have thought that what she was doing was for the best. An adviser might have been _part_ of it, but there had to be more to the story. He even wondered if their unusual ancestry on their mother's side had anything to do with the unfortunate events that took place during the fifth year of their lives.

"I've always believed Susan should never have sent Edmund to Anvard to begin with," Catalina finished. "The twins were thrilled to be together again, of course-and, as far as the way Lucy acts day to day, I'd even say she's almost forgotten it-yet, it was too traumatic for them. If she'd left them alone, I've always thought, mightn't they have out-grown their behavior by now? Susan, very likely, only prolonged their oddities and lack of desire to speak English or pay attention to others at court besides themselves, their wolves, Susan, and Tumnus."

"Lady Catalina! There you are. It's time for your Science lesson." Doctor Cornelius suddenly stood before them, having come from the other end of the corridor. "Good day, Peter."

"Good day, Doctor," he replied.

Catalina went to her lesson, Doctor Cornelius at her side, inquiring as to how much of her required Science reading she had completed.

Peter was left to continue the rest of his courtyard-view stroll quite alone. Or, so he thought, till he noticed a dark-haired figure, in a brown dress with white sleeves, withdraw into an arch.

The way she was traveling, he gathered quickly enough she had overheard plenty of his conversation with Lady Catalina.

"I thought you were in a counsel meeting," he said pointedly.

Susan came out into view. "It ended." She gave him a hard, very concentrated, look; it was as if she was searching for some hint of what he thought of her after what he had just heard. "Catalina's wrong, you know."

"About what?" asked Peter, a bit too innocently.

"My being unfair to the twins." Susan folded her arms over her chest. "Everything I did... it was because I wanted to _help_ them."

"Catalina didn't say any differently."

"No, but she implied it." Susan stopped walking, by default causing Peter to stop so he didn't go right by her while she was still speaking to him. "My cousin has never made her opinion hard to discern. You don't know the whole story; you have no idea what I've been through."

"I'm not judging you," Peter said, a touch too hurriedly.

"Yes, you are," Susan retorted. "Everybody does. You want to know why I sent Edmund away to Anvard? The _real_ reason? Because I was scared. My advisers-excepting Master Tumnus, who has never discouraged me in anything related to the twins-all told me I was too young, silly, and frivolous to raise a boy." She swallowed hard. "A girl, perhaps, they said; a boy-_never_. And when he never learned to speak English I thought they were right. That it was my fault. They always hinted as much." She closed her eyes. "I thought I was failing him and Lucy both... Everyone was telling me what to do about them-pulling me every which way, never giving me a chance to think for myself, even for a moment... Peter, I was so _scared_." Blinking back tears, she bit her lower lip, then promptly released it. "I felt so _sure_ I could teach Lucy to act like a little princess if I got her alone; that the noblemen of Archenland could raise Ed better than I would; that I could_ prove_ the twins were both norm-" She stopped, as if she had said something she hadn't meant to. Then, taking in his reaction, her eyes dried completely and narrowed. "You _know_, don't you? About my stepmother?"

"_No._.." Peter lied unconvincingly.

"Don't lie to me," she grunted, scowling. "It's treason."

Peter sighed. "All right, yes."

"Who told you?"

His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Part of him still didn't think this was the time to bring any of that up, not wanting to be in a 'precarious situation', but he couldn't keep it from her any longer. "Doctor Cornelius."

"I see." The young queen's expression became distant and unreadable. Then, "Anyway, next thing I know, I'm answering letters from Archenland, for lack of a better term, _begging_ me to accept my half-brother back into the Narnian court because they can't manage him and he's stopped eating..." The pain in her face was deep, and Peter sympathized. "Do you know what the twins did when they saw each other again?"

Peter shook his head. "What?"

Susan smiled weakly. "They spent the better part of a day just _staring_ at each other. I'd walk into the nursery chamber and find them both sitting, cross-legged, positively _gaping_, as if in a state of shock."

Seeing them, the way they'd looked at each other... It had been rather akin to watching an open cut heal; slow and painful. It was almost as if the twins had-in their subconscious minds-each taken their lost 'other half' for as good as dead; they were too young, perhaps, to understand why one day they were together, from dawn till dusk, and then suddenly, another day, it all ended so abruptly.

"You _regret _separating them," he noted softly. "And the way you did it."

"Every day of my life," whispered Susan. And, raising her voice, she added, "And I don't need people constantly reminding me of my failings in order to feel pity for my own brother and sister. Sitting on a throne does not make a queen nothing but a cold, heartless slab of stone." With that, she turned on her heels, her long skirts swishing as she moved, and fast-walked down the corridor.

This was the one thing Susan had, as a queen, no matter what. No matter what her advisers said or made her do, or what her unexpected new friend thought of her, she _always_ got in the last word.

Later that day, Lucy, caught and coaxed by Tumnus and the dryad who cleaned the windows on the west side of the castle, was brought into a sitting room with Susan to embroider samplers.

Susan's sampler was coming along well, as it always did; her little rosebuds all made with dainty stitches and just the right colours. Lucy's stitches were uneven, as she had barely even mastered the simple running-stitch, never-mind the more complicated ones needed to do truly admirable embroidering or cross-stitching; her over-sized roses were golden-brown and unrecognizable as being from the flower family at all, and her loose, dilapidated leaves were vivid orange instead of their, more or less, required shades of green.

Lucy pulled her feet up on the stool she was seated in and flung her unfinished sampler down into her lap, glaring at it despairingly. She was all too well-aware that, at her age, Susan's embroidery had been every bit as impeccable as it was at the present, and that her own was quite hopeless, but that wasn't what truly bothered her. What truly bothered her was that it was a tedious, unrewarding task. The results, from her end, were ugly. The work was tiresome. And she always seemed to prick her thumb with the needle at least once or twice every lesson.

She would have liked archery lessons a great deal more. Susan-surprisingly-was as good an archer as she was an embroiderer_-better_, even. She could have taught her half-sister to shoot arrows, except she had it in her head that Lucy was too little to begin instruction in anything that could be potentially dangerous. So she'd declared no archery lessons for the child till she was at least nine-preferably ten.

However, the way Lucy saw it, she couldn't possibly prick herself any more painfully with the end of a slightly blunted beginner's arrow than she did with the stupid sewing needle.

Only nobody asked _her_.

That was one reason she was so fond of Peter. She'd known from the first glimpse of him that, at last, she had found somebody worth speaking to. He would listen to her. She felt certain Peter would want to know what she thought about things. And that _he_ wouldn't care if she disappeared to play with her twin for a few hours and came back with mud on her third or fourth best dress. It wasn't as if there weren't tons of other dresses, yet Susan always treated the destruction of each one as if it were a horrific natural disaster in miniature.

Peter was in the room with them at the moment, reading a book while they did their sewing. As if in search for some sympathy she was not likely to get from the other females in the room (Tumnus had stayed only long enough to deliver her into the hands of her sister and the sewing instructors), Lucy fixed her gaze on him, and said, rather too loudly, "I loathe sewing."

Looking up from his book, recalling to mind a time when his mother had decided to try to teach him to use a sewing-machine a few years back, Peter said, "So do I."

Susan glared at him.

But Lucy's eyes shone.

Sympathy was instantaneous. Neither of them laughed, or cracked a smile. Neither thirteen-year-old boy nor seven-year-old girl thought it funny. They both knew, from different experiences, that sewing was much too dull to be funny. It was the proper acknowledgment of one friend to another; the very thing Lucy had been craving all her life, though she barely knew-or understood-it.

In her experience, Edmund was the one who understood everything she felt, but, because they were twins, that seemed only as it should be; there was greatly lacking the meeting between two fine friends, who discover, delightedly, they are kindred spirits. Lucy had always been a part of Edmund, and Edmund a part of Lucy. There was no discovery, no making of best friends; they already were that-_closer_ than that... They were twins from the moment of conception. And Tumnus and Susan were her companions, but also her teachers, as good as since the hour of her birth, it seemed to Lucy, who could only remember so far back. There was no _finding_ consolation with them. Peter was the first friend she had rightly _made_, chosen for herself.

He was older than her, and thus, despite-or, perhaps, alongside-her adoration, she must have imagined he held _some_ authority over her, yet Lucy found this wholly unoppressive. He was no tutor or adviser, not even an uncle. He was apart from all that. He was a separate entity in her eyes.

"Lucy, embroidery is an important skill," Susan began, though she knew Lucy hadn't been speaking to_ her_. "One that, when you're older, you will-"

But, right before the young queen could finish her thought, Edmund burst into the room, throwing the doors open.

This was quite odd because, while Edmund could be restless if he was bored and his twin was detained with something that did not concern him and therefore couldn't come and play, he usually steered clear of the sitting room when the ladies of the court did their sewing. Perhaps he was afraid they would try to make him learn, or, _worse_, sit quietly doing nothing at all while they continued their needlework. At any rate, he had a tendency to leave them alone, not even coming near the doors till the hour was up and Lucy was free. At such time, he would then appear and they'd both go off, and if you wanted either of them for any reason after that, you had to be cunning and fast on your feet to get them back.

Yet, here he was, barging in, as if in some sort of emergency. But there were no visible bruises or cuts, nothing that would cause him to seek out Susan for help. Indeed, he wasn't headed for _Susan_-he was aiming, very purposefully, for _Lucy's_ stool. He kept his head lowered and one hand to his brow.

Something was wrong, Peter was sure of it.

Lucy threw her sampler to the floor and sprang up onto her feet. "Edmund?"

Without a word, Edmund grabbed his twin's wrist and dragged her away.

She went willingly enough. It was the elder half-sister who tried to stop him, to make him explain what was going on, to not grasp his twin's lower arm so tight as he was liable to hurt her if he kept at it, but to no avail. He wouldn't even _look _at her, much less _obey _her.

Because Edmund wouldn't look up, no one in the room really saw his eyes at that moment.

Except, that is, for two people.

One was Lucy, who was alarmed, but not surprised; this had happened before, just not so that anybody else _saw _it happen.

The other was Peter, who was _stunned _by what he saw.

He knew Edmund had brown eyes, but the eyes of the boy who came in for Lucy were _green_. He was Edmund's match in every other feature except for his irises, and Lucy reacted to him no differently than she did to her brown-eyed twin.

That was what baffled Peter the most about what he had witnessed, as the 'twins' disappeared from the doorway, much to Susan's dismay. Scientifically, he was fairly certain that Lucy should have been able to recognize her own twin from a stranger. If he _was_ a stranger. It was Lucy's reaction that made him doubt that theory. She was a smart girl; she _knew_ her twin. Green eyes or no, going by the instincts of the girl who knew him best, one would simply _have _to conclude it really _was _Edmund, not an imposter.

"Did you see that?" Peter asked Susan, concerned.

"Edmund rudely break in and relieve Lucy of the remainder of her embroidery lessons without permission?" Susan arched an eyebrow. "Of course. How could I not?"

"No, not that..." Peter winced. "His eyes."

"What about them?"

"They were... _green_..."

"Peter, Edmund has _brown_ eyes."

"I know that."

"So why did you say they were green?"

"Because they _were_."

"When?"

"Just now!"

"Whose? _Edmund's_?"

"Yes, Edmund's!"

Susan furrowed her brow and stuck out her lower lip thoughtfully. "But Edmund has _brown_ eyes," she said, in a tone she would have used to speak to a half-wit.

Peter willed himself not to scream. "Forget it."

When, two hours later, Tumnus found the twins, they were asleep on a wide windowsill behind a pair of thick, black velvet, gold-fringed curtains. He wouldn't have spotted them, but Lucy's dangling stocking-foot hung out under the fringe.

Edmund's head was in Lucy's lap, and he seemed very worn-out and groggy when Tumnus roused them both, but the boy who woke and lifted his head from his twin sister's thighs, and who Susan scolded and then promptly gave hot herbal tea to, because she noticed he was not himself, quite dazed, and that he trembled rather a lot, possessed a pair of ordinary brown eyes without so much as a hint or speck of green to be found in either of them.

**AN: Please review.**


	10. The Calormene Prince Pays A Visit

It was almost midday when Peter turned the unicorn round, heading back towards Cair Paravel.

It had been a little over a year since he had first arrived in Narnia; springtime of the following year was coming round, leaving the land in a sort of soft, drippy thaw. Whatever remained of the snow was beginning to melt, dropping slowly down from the branches of greening trees. Bird songs were more and more frequent with each passing day. And Peter could take his unicorn out further, and for longer rides, than he could in the cold weather.

He had become very good at riding over the past year. His muscles had hardened from practice, his balance in general had greatly improved, and he was capable now of riding both with a saddle and bridle, in a proper procession or rade, and bareback, with nothing but the strength of his knees to hold him in place and nothing but the back of the unicorn's beautiful mane to grab onto.

He was fourteen now, and if he thought about his life in his own world, it was mostly just to hope that his mother didn't miss him-worry for him-too much. He didn't like the thought of his Mum never knowing what became of him; or of her calling the police and them never finding a sign of him, either. Professor Kirke might be too wrapped up in his studies to remember to tell his great niece if he suspected her son had simply taken an other-worldly vacation, courtesy of Entanglement. The thought that she might have been too busy with her nursing job to notice he wasn't there for the past year was almost comforting in comparison to the alternative.

Then again, more likely, he assumed, time wasn't going by in the world he came from same as it was in Narnia; he only hoped that, if such was indeed the case, it wasn't going _faster_ there. It would be rather awful to go back one day and find everyone elderly or dead. Except for maybe the Macready; if she was real old, perhaps she'd be retired from bossing him around. Goodness, maybe she even mellowed with age.

Yeah, right... And maybe pigs had learned to fly in his world during the time he'd been gone.

As for the mystery surrounding the twins, Peter still hadn't solved it.

Really, he hadn't even come _close_.

True, he and Lucy were the greatest of friends, and he loved that little girl more every day and, in spite of her callous way of taking off with Edmund whenever the mood struck the twins' fancy, scaring everyone (including himself and her half-sister) senseless in the process, he believed she loved him every bit as much in return. All the same, she wouldn't tell him Edmund's secret; whatever it was.

Lucy would tell Peter jolly nearly anything else, but not that.

It was safe to assume she hadn't told anyone else, either, because there was no one-excepting Edmund himself, of course-she talked to more than Peter. She had begun, over the last couple months, to speak in extremely short, not even always grammatically correct, sentences to her sister, Tumnus, and a few others, once in a while, but never to hold a full conversation. The only person she really talked to in English continued to be Peter and Peter alone.

She _did_ say, when Peter asked, that Edmund got bad headaches sometimes and that she comforted him; but she clammed right up, acting either awkwardly indifferent or simply running off and not showing herself for an hour or two, the minute he asked about her brother's green eyes.

There had been a time when Peter had truly theorized on whether or not it was impossible that there was a third 'twin' at Cair. Not necessarily Lucy's twin brother, a would-be triplet, but someone who _looked_ like Ed, save for those piercing green eyes, perhaps related to their family by some scandal. The king had married a witch, after all, the royal family here wasn't exactly squeaky clean and saintly on all counts.

The thing that made him dwell on the theory was largely Edmund himself.

At best, the boy was moody. But he was gentle enough while playing with his twin; and he had been spotted, once in a while, lightly caressing Maugrim's fur. At such moments he seemed so at peace. Yet, other times, he would seem agitated, as if something dark and unfriendly was trying to claw its way out of him. It was like the lifting up of a veil, almost. Behind the veil, Edmund was reclusive and dark. When it was lifted, he was someone else; someone loveable.

But there were serious flaws in this theory, which caused Peter, after much inward debate, to have to let go of it entirely. The first being that, if there _was_ a third 'twin', another Edmund, that one would have green eyes all the time; yet, since that day in the sitting room, Peter had only seen a brown-eyed Edmund, regardless of what mood the boy was in. It was true that sometimes when he wasn't doing well Edmund wouldn't look people in the eyes as readily, but Peter had caught a glimpse of them once when Lucy's twin was in a less than reasonable mood, and they'd still been brown. So, veil lifted or no, there was no sign of another person secretly living amongst the twins. Secondly, how would Lucy communicate with the green-eyed boy if he were a separate entity from her twin? In English, which she used so sparingly save for were Peter was concerned? It seemed unlikely. And the green-eyed boy, if he wasn't Edmund, shouldn't have been able to understand twin-speak. Maugrim and Maya understood Edmund and Lucy's twin-speak, but that was different somehow.

Moreover, there was Lucy's recognition of her twin that one time he _did _have those green eyes to take into consideration.

It was Edmund all right; through and though. That logical conclusion remained unchanged.

And so had the mystery lived on.

Sighing, Peter slid down from the unicorn's back, for he had reached the stable.

When it could be helped, Peter liked to take care of the unicorn himself, rather than have the stable-boy do it. And he had an inkling the unicorn liked it better that way, too.

"See you tomorrow, friend." He stroked the unicorn's muzzle.

The unicorn neighed softly, snorted, then stuffed its nose into a leather feedbag.

Once inside one of Cair Paravel's various antechambers, Peter found himself a comfortable chair by a window that had been left open so that a cool ocean breeze, coupled with the songs of the merfolk, could be enjoyed, and took out his Game Boy Pocket. He didn't know how much longer it would be before the battery died, but he hadn't used it too much his first year (there was rather too much else to do and see at Cair to bother himself about video games very often) and it had been almost new when he put the Game Boy in his backpack, back in his own world.

Being not far off, and hearing the beeping and background music of the game starting up, Edmund appeared almost magically at his elbow.

The boy-twin still never spoke a word to him, but they had sort of bonded in a silent way over the beauty that is video games. Lucy liked the Game Boy, too, and took her turn whenever Peter offered it, but she wasn't particularly fascinated by it, not like her brother was.

Right then, she was playing behind the only currently drawn curtain in that antechamber with a large, curly-haired doll in a blue-and-white frock. She more interested, as any eight year old girl might have been, in hosting a tea party in which the blue-and-white garbed doll was the guest of honour than she was in making a little character on a screen race jump up and down. The pieces of her tea-set that remained unsmashed (you couldn't have someone like _Edmund_ for a twin brother and keep a whole set of china in perfect order) had various little chips and cracks in them, and part of the gold rim round the biggest cup was rubbed off or else simply faded, yet she seemed contented with her flawed toys regardless.

Peter wasn't the least bit surprised when he saw her, cracked saucer in hand, stick her upper-body out from behind the curtain. Since Edmund was in there, he'd figured she had to be nearby as well; also, Maya was asleep in one of the window-seats, and she didn't like to be far off from her little mistress.

She seemed to be trying to invite Edmund or Peter to take imaginary tea with her, but went back-quite happily, wholly unoffended-to attending to her doll when they waved off her offer, engrossed in their game.

"Oh, that noisy thing again?" came a sigh from the open arch that served for a doorway.

Peter glanced up, letting Edmund take complete control of the game, and noticed Susan standing there.

At thirteen she was even prettier than she'd been at twelve. Whatever small amount of childish rounding that had been left in her cheeks a year before was gone and she'd grown into her height so that it didn't look gangly.

It was the young queen's height, in fact, that Peter learned to judge his own by. He hadn't realized he was getting-and already _had_ gotten-taller till about six months ago when he found himself having to look _down_ at Susan instead of directly across.

"You would like it better if you tried it," Peter told her.

Susan wrinkled her nose. "Me? Play with that contraption?" She shuddered a little. "Your flashlight is useful, but I don't see the purpose of that silly old thing."

"Edmund likes it," he pointed out.

"I rest my case," she teased.

The sides of Edmund's mouth turned downwards and he glared at his half-sister out of the corner of his eye.

"Why don't you take a turn and see if you like it after all?" suggested Peter.

"Oh, I couldn't."

"Sure you could," he insisted, in a no-nonsense tone that told her he wasn't going to take no for an answer. "Come here."

She folded her arms across her chest and looked sullen at _his _giving _her_ an order, but she came nonetheless.

Trying on a rather too large black velvet hat trimmed with ermine fur, Lucy looked up from her tea party again and waved at Susan.

"Yes, hello, Lucy." She smiled at her sister. "Lovely hat, dear."

After wrestling the Game Boy away from Edmund, Peter handed it to Susan and showed her how to use it.

"This is the silliest..." she began, slowly getting the hang of it, her voice trailing off as as her concentration increased. "Oh, look at the funny little man jumping over the mushrooms!" She swallowed back a giggle. "This_ is_ rather amusing." Then, "However, if an army ever really _does _invade the castle, I highly doubt collecting gold coins is going to help."

Peter laughed at that; he couldn't help it.

Susan gave the Game Boy back to Edmund for a bit. "What are you looking at me like that for?" She'd noticed Peter had been staring at her ever since his laughter had ceased.

Frankly, Peter wasn't sure why he was staring at her. He just sort of _was_. Well, he did have _some _reason; she was dressed up real fancy-like, and he'd only just noticed. Her dress, apparently new, was of the darkest purple velvet over-laid with grey brocade. Round her neck was a necklace of black pearls with an oval amethyst pendant, and her long black hair was up in a silver hairnet woven with tiny white beads. But that hadn't been at all what he was thinking about when he gazed at her a moment ago.

All the same, it was as good an excuse he was likely to come up with. "You look nice. Is Cair Paravel having guests this afternoon?"

Susan grimaced nervously. If her hair hadn't been up so neatly, hanging loose, she might have tugged on the loose ends of it. "Well, now, yes." Her face flushed. "Prince Rabadash might be arriving sometime today for a visit."

Lucy broke another piece of her tea-set, dropping a cup down in surprise.

"Oh, Lucy!" cried Susan, leaping up. "Be careful. Don't touch the broken china. I'll have a servant in here to clean it."

"Don't want Rabadash." Lucy pouted. "Don't like him."

"I know you don't, sweetheart," Susan said. "But it's been two years since we last saw him, maybe you'll get along better now that you're both older."

Edmund gave Peter the Game Boy back; suddenly he didn't feel like playing. He hated Prince Rabadash. Why did Susan always do this to them? Always wait till the last minute to tell them her horrible betrothed was coming for a visit? A decent sister would just let them hide like they wanted to. But that was Susan for you, always trying to act like a mother; keeping them in line, making sure they stood, all scrubbed and polite, in attendance whenever 'important' guests arrived.

Sometimes, Edmund just wanted to scream at her, "You think you're our Mum, but you're _not_!" Except, that would require actually _speaking_ to her, which he never did. Besides, what was the alternative to Susan being the 'mother figure' in their lives? If their mother had lived, Edmund was smart enough to discern that his life and that of his twin sister would have been made the worse for it. Though, once in a while, when a bad mood was upon him, temptation strong, he did _wonder_... Then it would hit him, like a ton of bricks, what he'd seen, the thing that had convinced him that any 'witch' in his blood wasn't something to be embraced, and his wondering would stop. He wasn't the sort to give in so easily. Not when the one thing that mattered, the one person he was sure he loved consistently and without any compulsion or valid resentment, was on the line.

"He's here, your Majesty."

Peter and Susan turned their heads, almost simultaneously, to see Catalina, Caspian, and Tumnus standing on the other side of the arch.

From somewhere not too far off, a tower-bell was being rung and trumpets were being blown.

Lucy and Edmund tried to make themselves scarce, but Tumnus took them in hand. "Sorry, but there's really nothing I can do about it."

Maya, ever loyal, sat up and stretched, padding over to Lucy's side, even though she didn't like Prince Rabadash either.

In another chamber, two doors down, Maugrim had been sprawled out on a cozy fleece rug. Yawning and grunting, the wolf shook himself as he rose. He could hear bells; a guest was coming. Edmund would be forced to stand at attention; he might as well be at his side.

So, by the time the Calormene royals approached, the entire Narnian court was standing outside of Cair Paravel waiting for them.

Not, of course, that this induced the Calormenes to go any faster. Oh, no, they took their sweet time. This is not to say that it is not a good thing to be cautious when traveling up a cliff-like terrain, but deliberately going slow as molasses when a perfectly acceptable, and not at all dangerous, path that is used daily without a single problem ever being reported, just for dramatic effect, is not the way to go about showing how cautious and wise you are. All it does is annoy whomever you're keeping waiting.

"For pity's sake," Susan whisper-hissed to the sullen-faced twins. "_Try_ to smile a little!"

"They hate him, he hates them," sighed Tumnus, shaking his head. "No amount of smiling will change that."

The first Calormenes to reach the doors were a team of musicians. Peter thought they might say something, or at least greet their hosts, but instead, without so much as a nod, they began striking up a merry but far too high-pitched tune that made Maugrim flatten his ears, Maya whimper, and Edmund and Lucy wrinkle their noses in perfect unison.

This was done so that Prince Rabadash and his nobles could arrive in-sync to the beat of the music. It was rather pathetic, but as everyone else remembered the same kind of nonsense from his last visit two years before, it was only Peter who was taken by surprise and struggled, hard as anything, not to bust out laughing. He made of a point of not looking at Lucy, for his had a feeling that, if their eyes met and silently agreed on the sheer stupidity of Rabadash's musical number, neither of them would be able to keep a straight face; they'd both be doubled over in hysterics by the time the Calormene party was in sight of them.

Still, it was a terrible struggle. Peter couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to laugh quite _this _badly but knew he couldn't.

Susan, thoughtlessly, for some reason having ended up at on his right side (the Narnian court, even under the rein of Susan's stricter advisers, was not so formal that line-ups were done according to rank, so it wasn't uncommon for a queen to find herself standing near a cook or a tutor or, in this case, a young man of no title who had been living with them for the past year), reached for his hand.

Afterward, the queen tried to maintain that, in fact, she had only been trying to get him to straighten up and stop biting his lip, so obviously fighting back a severe round of chuckles, by digging her nails into his hand; but that was not actually true. In fact, she _didn't_ dig into his hand; she held it gently for the split-second before she realized what she was doing and hastily dropped it before Rabadash, or anyone who might report it to him, could see and get the wrong idea. She had, in reality, been trying to draw _comfort_ from Peter, not reprimand him as she later claimed.

The music sped up as the horses and litters and other traffic created by members of the Calormene nobility parted like the dashed Red Sea itself for Rabadash and two of his tallest, most buff, well-adorned guards to come to the front.

The Calormene prince and his guards even alighted in time with the musicians' playing; and Peter rolled his eyes before he could remember to stop himself.

Then, forcing his face to be straight again, Peter took in Rabadash. He had been curious as to what the prince looked like, as he had never seen him before, Rabadash's last visit having taken place before he arrived in Narnia. And though he had expected a good-looking young man, dressed in finery, and those expectations were relatively met, he had also expected somebody gallant, admirable, and, well, _younger_.

Prince by title or not, his otherwise handsome and dark face was distorted with this appalled 'I smell horse manure' type expression, and there wasn't a single tell-tale sign of bravery or valor in him. Peter half-thought this prince would break down in a horrid tantrum and_ cry_ if surrounded in battle. He probably had been taught to fight, and to fight _well_ at that, but when that failed him and the whole situation appeared hopeless, he didn't seem to be of the sort that was likely to stick it out and go down like a real man. Moreover, Rabadash had to be at least seventeen or eighteen years old; back in his world, it probably wouldn't have even been _legal_ for Susan to date this pompous bloke.

"Good day, Queen Susan, O delight of my eyes, lady of my heart," Rabadash rattled off quickly and dismissively, not as if Susan really _were_ as special and important as all that to him.

The two guards at either side of their prince bowed graciously.

Susan dipped a respectful half-curtsey. "Welcome to Cair Paravel, your Highness and your Lordships."

Rabadash took her hand and kissed it, then, pulling back, twisted his mouth and examined her as if she were naught but an oil painting his father the Tisroc had bought for him.

The twins pulled terrible faces on him, and their wolves (even timid Maya) growled, but he took no notice of them, save for out of the corner of his eye. If he thought of them at all, it was only in longing for the day after he had married their beautiful half-sister, firmly established himself in the barbarian court, and had the pair of brats and those sharp-toothed wild beasts that followed them about exiled as far north as humanly possible; Ettinsmoor, perhaps.

Reaching up, Rabadash cupped Susan's chin with one hand. He didn't do so _roughly_, exactly, but he wasn't doing it in a tender manner, either. He tilted her head up towards him, and stared at her face very hard for a few moments. "Lovelier every time I see you, O beautiful one, but you still have some freckles on your nose. You would look fairer without them, my queen. See what you can do about that."

Peter gritted his teeth. He_ liked_ Susan's freckles. Funnily enough, he hadn't been aware that he'd ever even thought of those freckles before, or cared a fig about them, till the moment Rabadash said something against their existence. Yet, he _did_. He really and truly did. He liked those small, sweetly scattered, freckles on her otherwise lily-white face; they gave her character.

"Who is this?" Rabadash had noticed Peter. He was dimly aware of the lack of formality at Cair Paravel, and he didn't like it. Which accounted for the extra load of condensation in his already rather patronizing and demeaning tone.

"My _friend_," blurted Lucy, glaring angry daggers at the Calormene prince. Usually she would never have spoken in English to someone she hated as much as Rabadash, but in Peter's defense, to assert that he had best not try to embarrass or hurt him, something inside her psyche must have deemed the uncharacteristic venture worth the discomfort.

Rabadash raised a single, dark eyebrow, looking as if a rock had grown a mouth and spoken. "It sounds as if you have found your voice in the time I've been gone."

The resentment with which Rabadash was looking at Lucy when he commented on her sudden ability to speak English struck a nerve in Peter, who, reaching out, wrapped his arm round the little girl and pressed her protectively to his side.

Nobody noticed that Edmund looked angry as well. Not just with the prince, but also with Lucy. She was beginning to talk_ too_ much, and that frightened him. Supposing she drifted away from him, forgot their twin-speak entirely one day in favor of proper English? Or worse, supposing, now that she had proven that she was physically capable of speaking English, even around people she didn't care for, someone came and took her away-separated them all over again?

Lucy might not have been the sort to dwell on their past separation, but Edmund lived with the horror of being dragged off to Anvard every day of his life.

Anvard in itself had been a lovely place, and under different circumstances, Edmund might have been happy there. In another universe, perhaps he _was_. Perhaps in some other world, he was even friends with the royal family there. But, in this one, he was not. Anvard symbolized being painfully severed from half of himself, and he could not will his mind-conscious _and_ subconscious-to let go of that belief, no matter how much time had gone by since it happened.

And no one ever knew-or _cared_ to know, as far as he could figure-how he felt about all this. He sometimes wondered if, to everyone except his twin and sometimes Tumnus, he was practically invisible. He even wondered if Susan really loved him, or if she secretly wished she was not burdened with an unruly boy half-sibling at court; that Lucy had been a single birth.

Although Edmund's anger and fear escaped Peter's notice along with that of everybody else, there was one thing the fourteen year old boy from another world saw that no one else did.

It was only for a fleeting moment, but he thought he saw tears glinting in Susan's eyes, being quickly blinked back, when Rabadash let go of her face.

_If he ever really hurts her_, Peter's thoughts raced, his throat going dry and his heart pounding without warning, _I'm going to kill him_.

**AN: Please leave a review.**


	11. That Mysterious Puzzle

When Peter woke the next morning, he found a silver cart with a glass of milk and a deckle-edged book on it by his bedside, directly in his line of vision as the world came into perspective, the remainder of his sleep-and the already long forgotten dreams it invoked-dissolving like a mist.

This was not an unusual occurrence. For, over the past year, Doctor Cornelius had slipped, silent as a wraith, somehow managing never so much as once to squeak the wheels on the cart, into Peter's round sleeping-chamber, many a time, always leaving behind some small treat (creamy milk, a square of white cake, and-once-a chocolate rabbit) and a book taken from the library.

Aside from their short greetings, this was their only real interaction, as well as the only way they shared thoughts.

For every book left, there appeared to be a reason. Nearly everything Doctor Cornelius gave him to read-fiction or nonfiction-had some way of tying in with whatever was happening around court.

Except, that is, for _Till We Have Faces_; Peter still hadn't figured out what message Doctor Cornelius was trying to get across to him with _that_ one, or how the book-which he knew from his own world though he'd never read it there-was even _in_ Narnia to begin with.

Entanglement could have had something to do with it, he supposed. Perhaps _that _was what the message was: that some books from his own world were here, too, via an entanglement. But, in all honesty, he wasn't sure.

That morning's book was a slim, leather-bound Science volume, the title of which made Peter's blood run cold and his fingers tingle with excitement at the same time.

_Magic Beings and Their Offspring_.

Edmund and Lucy, he thought, they must be why Doctor Cornelius is giving me this to read; there's something to do with them and their secret he wants me to know...

But did Doctor Cornelius know their secret? The same secret Peter had discerned? Of Edmund's strange behavior and one-time change of eye-colour? Or was it something _else_ he wanted him to know about?

Upon opening the book, he found that the title page actually said 'Magic_ Beans _and Their Offspring', which was either a typo or else a bad pun. Peter personally banked on the former.

The table of contents, though, appeared to have no typos to speak of, and he quickly flipped to the chapter titled _Magical Twins_.

It was the shortest chapter in the book, only about two and a half pages long. There wasn't much information, mainly mundane (base, and pretty much useless) facts such as that twins were statistically more common than single births when it came to witch-children but it was unknown how accurate the statistics in question actually were. It was also mentioned, in passing, that, according to one theory, witches never truly had single-birth children, but merely had one 'vanishing twin'; a condition in which one twin disappears early (and completely undetected) in the pregnancy, resulting in a seemingly single birth. But one short paragraph on that last half-page of the chapter genuinely caught Peter's attention.

_An interesting theory regarding twins born to witches_, it read, _is that twins of different genders are believed not to be fraternal, as they would be in humans or in the majority of other creatures, such as fauns and centaurs. Every twin born to a witch is most likely identical; by blood, even if not obvious from plainly visible genetic traits_.

That meant Edmund and Lucy would be identical twins. Peter wasn't sure why that was important, but he could sense that it was.

_That _was to do with Entanglement, too, wasn't it? The way identical twins reacted to each other, in general. Even back in his own world, he'd heard stories where scientists were baffled by how one identical twin could know something was wrong with the other when they were miles apart. In one case, a man was in a car crash and, upon impact, it was his brother-who lived five miles away and was sitting in a lawn chair not doing anything dangerous or scary, who screamed. In another, a young woman was being scolded by her boss who refused to pay her even minimum wage and constantly belittled her. The moment she began to cry, the phone rang. It was her twin sister on the other end, calling because she just _knew_ something was the matter; an overwhelming sense of despair had come over her, and yet everything in her own life was fine, so she'd concluded it must have been her sister under duress. That woman's twin lived three time zones away.

It's all related, Peter thought, closing his eyes and remembering what Uncle Kirke had told him when he was thirteen years old, before he found Narnia: _if one world has become, although distant enough to be its completely separate reality, entangled with another, why, then something will always be drawing them over each other, like a magnet. If something goes amiss, akin to the other world being, let us say, poked in the eyeball, it would be the world it is entangled with that flinches_.

The twins were sort of in their own little world most of the time. They even spoke a language that was theirs and theirs alone. Lucy, in beginning to speak more English, growing closer and closer to Peter, was coming out of that twin-world they'd established-since infancy, as likely as not-but she was still entangled with it. She loved Peter, but Peter was not her twin; and her heart knew that. Her loyalty was still to her brother and keeping his secret, whatever it was. Her first language (and her first _nature_, really) was twin-speak.

And while Peter had no plans to walk up to Edmund and poke him in the eye just to see if Lucy flinched, he thought his great, great uncle's theory, along with the information from the book Doctor Cornelius had left, was helping him understand better.

Edmund and Lucy didn't _become_ entangled; they were _born_ with Entanglement running through their veins. They, in themselves, were one world split into two halves; two alternate aspects of each other.

Somehow, the wolves figured into this as well... Maybe _they _weren't twins (though that possibility wasn't entirely ruled-out), but they _were _from the same litter, the only survivors of the pack belonging to Queen Jadis. In some queer way, Maya and Maugrim fit, like pieces in a puzzle, into Edmund and Lucy's reclusive twin-world.

He was still in his nightclothes, so, placing the book back down on the cart, he changed into a gray shift, leather tunic, and tights, then reached for his boots, slipping his feet inside of them. Having been broken-in several months ago, they fit like gloves.

Once he was dressed, he reached for the milk and chugged it down. Time to get the day started.

It was late; he had slept in and then been lost in his thoughts about the twins and Entanglement. Breakfast was over, but that was all right, since he wasn't feeling terribly hungry. The milk had been the thick, foamy kind and was rather filling. Besides, the servants were all friends of his and would give him a snack at any hour of the day if he turned up at the kitchen doors.

He turned a corner in a corridor supported by two large glass columns with entwined gold-and-silver bases, and came across Catalina with Lord Asher and Lady Adeline, Trumpkin the dwarf's steward and young wife, speaking in low voices.

"But _what_ happened?" asked Adeline, biting her lower lip and draping the end of her waist-length right sleeve over her arm and winding the pale rose-coloured fabric round her wrist in compulsive, nervous-habit sort of manner. "Why was the Prince of Calormen so angry?"

"I don't think he's ever _not _angry," snorted Catalina.

"But he did have some reason for it today," Asher said. "I shouldn't like to sit on a pine cone by mistake, especially if I was wearing such billowy clothes."

"Pish," retorted Catalina.

"But what _happened_?" Adeline repeated, letting go of her sleeve, her eyes glancing up from it as it fell back into place, slightly wrinkled but otherwise none the worse for her fidgeting with it. "How did he come to sit on a pine cone?"

"It was in the throne room, early this morning," Catalina explained. "Caspian and I were there; Prince Rabadash, too. Susan was having an audience with some sort of landowner from the Ettinsmoor border, some hullabaloo about illegal animal traps. After the landowner left, before Susan stood up, Rabadash walked right over to the king's throne and _sat down_."

"But he isn't our king," said Adeline, blinking indignantly. "_We_ don't send Prince Edmund over to Calormen to go plop his bottom on the _Tisroc's _throne."

"I suppose he thinks he has a right because he's betrothed to Queen Susan," sighed Asher. His facial expression was sad; he still fancied the queen himself, though he knew nothing would-or _could_-come of it.

Catalina shook her head. "Even so, he's not a Narnian. Narnians won't be ruled by a hard-fisted Calormene royal who reeks of spicy flower perfume. Someone ought to explain to him that he's to be Susan's consort, but Narnia isn't _his_ kingdom to rule. He's the heir to Calormen, anyway; oldest son of the Tisroc. He can't have both Calormen and Narnia under his thumb. Who would stand for it? He'll soon be as good as a king of Calormen, for certain, but he's set up to be a Lord Consort here."

"But he will sit in the throne anyway, won't he?" asked Lord Asher, furrowing his brow. "At Susan's side?"

Shrugging, Catalina said, "I don't know. But everyone else related to the queen always stands in the throne room while she sits; as a sign of respect."

"Rabadash _doesn't _respect her," Asher mumbled. "I don't think this alliance was even well-thought out."

"Hush!" hissed Catalina, reaching out and lightly gripping Lord Asher's arm. "There's free-talk, as anyone in Narnia is entitled to, then there's madness. The prince _does_ have spies, you know. No harm in their taking back information he ought to have had anyway, if he had a lick of good sense, but don't cast doubt on his relationship with Susan or the rightness of the alliance. They can twist that. We don't want to set off a spark that starts a war."

"But, now, what of that pine cone?" insisted Adeline, truly wanting to know. "How did it come to be on the king's throne?"

"Doubtless one of the twins put it there," Catalina said. "They were both hiding behind Susan's throne and began laughing when Rabadash let out a yelp." She smiled to herself. "It _was _rather amusing, I suppose. I was tempted to giggle a bit myself. But of course they'll probably be punished. Rabadash had a terrible fit of temper, though. He even broke a decorative vase Susan liked."

"I thought the twins were ill today," whispered Adeline. "Trumpkin was speaking with Master Tumnus, who told him so. They wouldn't come out for breakfast."

"_They_ weren't ill," said Catalina; "_Edmund_ had a headache and Lucy insisted on staying with him. For some reason they went ahead and locked themselves inside the nursery, wouldn't even let Master Tumnus inside with them. Lucy said something in that queer broken English of hers through the wood of the door, and he left them alone. Edmund must have gotten better, though, if they could be in the throne room only an hour later."

"Could they have been feigning?" Asher wondered.

"Who knows?" Catalina replied. "At any rate, one of them was responsible, and Rabadash isn't likely to forget it."

Adeline shuddered. "Personally, if that's how it happened, I think the Calormene prince only got what was coming to him. Also, the poor twins are only eight years old, and they haven't got any parents; one must make allowances."

"Someone's coming!" blurted Asher.

Catalina twisted her neck, smiling when she recognized the fourteen year old blonde boy standing there, listening to their conversation. It was all right; _he _was no crooked-tongued spy of Rabadash's. "It's only Peter."

"Oh, _thanks_," he said, his head cocked slightly to the left, giving them a playful half-smile.

"We were wondering if you took sick," Asher told him, his voice polite, laced with mild concern.

"Distracted," Peter informed them. "That's all." He was distracted right then, too, even as he was speaking.

It all connected somehow, and it was driving him mad trying to make the pieces fit. It was like finding a wonderful puzzle, the pieces all there, but, alas, having lost the box, you couldn't figure out what it was supposed to be. And, without that former knowledge of what is meant to be formed by the pieces, the task remains frustratingly incomplete. It becomes a half-done puzzle, still without clear enough pattern to discern its true meaning, abandoned and picked up again at different intervals, always being left unsolved.

Unsolved, and disappointing.

The pieces: Edmund's green eyes that were supposed to be brown; Lucy's broken English; the twin language; identical, not fraternal; queer headaches that only Edmund had, never Lucy; isolation; witch-blood; fear of separation; and the wolves.

The green eyes might fit, if theories were stretched enough, with the witch-blood, but then why wouldn't Lucy's eyes have ever gone green? Why didn't Lucy act as strange as her brother did sometimes? Was Edmund, acting on his own, secretly involved in some sort of witchcraft that Lucy was trying to cover up? But, no, Peter didn't fully believe him capable of it.

And while that formed one quarter of the big picture, the mysterious puzzle, it fit it not at all with the rest of the fragments.

Fear of separation, headaches, isolation, the twin language, and the role the wolves played, being companions for the strange magical twins that seemed so introverted, save for the rare exception in Lucy's case, fit into another quarter of the puzzle, too far off from the witch-blood theory to be bridged.

These quarters were like islands; the great continent would not form and complete the picture till the rest of the pieces could be sorted. And Peter was beginning to doubt if he could do that. He was so close, after a year, and yet still so far.

To top it off, he was afraid for their safety. He didn't trust Rabadash, little though he knew him. And if Rabadash did not like Lucy, it was little wonder which twin he would most likely take out his fury on.

_Over my dead body_, thought Peter, mulling over the situation and the fragmented metaphorical puzzle. _Just _let_ that foolish prince try to retaliate on little Lucy. He'll be going back to Calormen slurping his food up through a blooming bamboo straw!_

Then again, who was to say that Rabadash would not simply take the easiest way of revenge, however unjustified, and harm the one easiest to catch? The twins were devils in his eyes, but they were also slippery; he'd never catch them, and they could, if he tried, probably out-wit him. The two of them, always together, would each help the other evade the vengeful prince. But he could get at Susan. She was his betrothed, and the half-sister of the twins he so disliked. She was sensitive and vulnerable in a way the twins never would be. A remark that would glance off the twins, more likely to blink at the prince as if he had five heads then laugh about it later than to feel hurt, would sting the young queen more readily. Peter couldn't make himself forget the tears she'd held back the day before, after Rabadash made that idiotic remark about her freckles. Rabadash had already, according to Catalina's account of events, broken a vase Susan liked, and Peter only hoped the prince would be satisfied with that one destructive act and let it go.

He _hoped_, but he did not _believe_, it would be so.

And all over a _pine cone_, no less!

Later that day, an hour or so after noon, Peter decided to go for a stroll in Cair Paravel's garden. There was also a vegetable garden, quite close to the back door of the kitchen, but this garden was largely a pleasure garden; it branched off via a low wooden door built into a stone wall that separated it from the vast apple orchard.

Susan had evidently come from that way, by means of the orchard, because there was a woven basket propped near her feet, full of apples as well as a handful of roses. She had cut-and was still cutting-these roses off of an overflowing bush. Most of them had petals in various shades of pink, anywhere from pale to vivid, but the one she was taking her small knife to the stem of now was dark red.

She looked lovely-her hair in two glossy braids, one of which fell down her back, the other hanging over her right shoulder-and surprisingly at peace considering the bad morning she had supposedly endured. Her dress was white lace and silk with pink embroidery on the bodice; matched with scarlet sleeves she rolled up to her elbows while she cut the roses that went into her apple basket.

If the twins were under punishment it was either already over or else had not yet begun, for they were in the garden as well. Edmund was sprawled out on a checkered picnic blanket, one arm bent behind his neck, looking up lazily at the clouds; Maugrim sitting beside him, sniffing at the air occasionally. Lucy was on a stone bench, happily looking at a picture book. Her short legs didn't quite reach the mulch-filled ground under the bench, and she swung them back and forth while she turned the pages of the sleek, brightly-coloured volume in her lap.

"I heard about what happened this morning," Peter said, as he approached from behind.

Susan looked at him over her shoulder. "It was nothing."

"That's not what I heard." He wasn't letting her brush it off so easily.

"I'm sure there was no harm meant from either side," she said softly, her voice strained, overtly worn-out. "Edmund had just recovered from a headache and he must have talked Lucy into some silly game involving leaving pine cones lying about, and... Well, I'm sure Prince Rabadash didn't _really _intend to break that vase..."

"Susan, you don't need to hide things from me," he said gently. "If he ever..."

"Eve-" Susan began. Then, "Ouch." She had _meant_ to say, 'Ever what?' in a flat, 'I have no idea what you're talking about' tone, but being distracted by Peter she'd accidentally cut into one of her fingers with the knife.

"Here." Peter took out a handkerchief and pressed it against her bleeding fingertip.

Unexpectedly, she felt her cheeks flushing. "Thanks."

Leaving her to hold pressure down on the handkerchief herself, Peter picked up the knife (which Susan had dropped after cutting herself) and finished severing the red rose for her, carefully cutting off the thorns before bending down and placing it in her basket.

Their eyes met again; Susan smiled. She realized suddenly that she was happy-almost _absurdly _happy-that Peter lived at Cair Paravel now. She could scarcely believe, a little more than a year ago, she had been so awful to him when they'd first met. Why she was pondering this at that particular moment, she wasn't sure.

Their concentration swiftly broken as Susan looked away, gazing down at the blood-dappled handkerchief in her hand, Peter's eyes flickered over to the picnic blanket.

Edmund and Maugrim were gone.

Susan went pale. "Where's Lucy?"

She was gone, too. The stone bench was empty.

"Listen," said Peter, crinkling his forehead. "You hear that, Su?"

She did. "It sounds like a dog barking." She paused. "No, not a dog..." Her eyes widened. "A wolf."

They ran into the orchard, ducking under the door, and found the source: Maya, tethered to a low tree branch by a rope.

"Why would Lucy tie up Maya?" whispered Peter, feeling a shiver in his spine. Something wasn't right.

"She _wouldn't_," Susan knew. "Lucy would never tie up her wolf and leave her." She bent down near the trembling wolf. "Maya, who did this? What's happened? Where's Lucy?"

"I..." The wolf quivered, hiccup-barked, and let out a weak whine. "I...it was...I...I don't...I didn't see..."

"Come on." Susan grabbed Peter's arm. "We have to find her. We'll split up. If you find her first, send Trumpkin to locate me and tell me she's safe. If I find her first, I'll send Tumnus to you. All right?"

Peter nodded. "What about Edmund?"

Susan shook her head. "I'm sure he's fine."

"Not if his twin isn't," Peter pointed out.

"Peter, I'm really worried," Susan said, loosening a knot in the rope and setting Maya free. "Just go look for her. We haven't time for this."

Less than half an hour later, Tumnus came running up to Peter, who was busily searching the stables. Lucy loved horses; it wouldn't be the first time she'd gone off on her own to see them. Maybe she didn't even know Maya was tied up. Maya liked the horses, too. Well, those that didn't spook at the sight of her, anyway. Peter thought perhaps Lucy was _looking _for Maya in the stables. He didn't consider the fact that, from the garden, she should have heard the barking, just as he and Susan had.

"Tumnus." He straightened his back, having been bent over an empty stall (he had once seen Edmund and Lucy asleep in there). "Susan... She found her?"

The faun nodded, his face grave.

Fear gripped Peter's heart. "Oh, God! She's hurt?"

"No," said the faun. "She's... She's all right, Peter. She's not injured. A bit traumatized, perhaps, but she'll be all right."

"What happened?"

The faun didn't answer.

"Tumnus, what _happened_?"

"You had best come with me," was all he would say. "I'm sure she'll be calmer if she sees you."

Peter obeyed and followed Tumnus all the way to a sitting room in a tower, diagonally across from the one his own sleeping-chamber was in.

Lucy sat in Susan's lap. "Shh, it's all right," she whispered to her little half-sister soothingly. "Sit still, sweetheart, it's almost done. I can't get it straight if you squirm."

Peter felt confused; Lucy looked the same as always, except, of course, her face was red from crying, her little nose gone the colour of a ripe cherry, and her cheeks were all tear-stained. Then, slowly, he noticed what was different about her. All of her long hair, that beautiful reddish-brown thigh-length mantle, was gone. Susan was trying to straighten it out for her, as it had evidently been uneven when they found her, but it was obviously only going to have to be cut shorter still; it would be a bob round her cheeks by the time it looked like it had been cut by choice.

"Susan, it's a little off," Peter blurted thoughtlessly.

"I suppose you could do better?" There was no cutting-edge to her voice, only a wavering tiredness. She moved from the chair she was seated in, had Peter take her place, and put Lucy down into his lap, handing him a pair of silver scissors. She was in no mood to argue.

If nothing else, Lucy seemed more relaxed with Peter. She was still upset and apparently stunned speechless by whatever had happened, but her muscles, clenched the whole time Susan had been trying-rather in vain-to soothe her, naturally unclenched now that Peter was taking charge.

"When I find that brother of hers..." muttered Susan, reaching up and rubbing her temples with her index finger and thumb.

"Wait." Peter was so surprised he nearly dropped the scissors. "_Edmund_ did this?"

"Who else?" snapped Susan.

Lucy tried to say something, but then began to hiccup violently, too worked up to make anything coherent come out of her mouth.

Susan ordered the servants to bring her some water. "It's all right, dear. Don't try to speak now. It's all over. Your hair will grow back, I promise. And it will be even more beautiful then."

"Someone _pulled_ on her hair before they cut it," Peter pointed out. "There's a near bald spot over here."

Susan gritted her teeth. "Master Tumnus?"

"Yes, your Majesty?"

"When you do find him, tell Edmund he is to stay in the chambers in the southwest wing all day tomorrow, that I don't want to see him."

"I saw him before I brought Peter here; he wants to be in here, too, with Lucy," Tumnus told her. "The servants are keeping him away."

"_No_," Susan snarled. "I don't want him near anywhere near her for the next couple of days. I think he's done enough damage, don't you?"

"Your Majesty, think of the implications," pleaded the faun. "It might be Anvard all over again."

"Nonsense," said Susan. "Edmund isn't going anywhere. He's just being punished; he's too old for this."

Lucy was crying again.

"Your Majesty, with all due respect," Tumnus pressed, "I don't think separation ever works in their case."

"This isn't about the way they talk or act. It's about Edmund mistreating his sister again." Susan closed her eyes, sighed deeply, then opened them again. "I can't express how disappointed I am in him; I truly believed he had out-grown his bullying phase a long time ago."

"Again?" Peter repeated, finishing getting Lucy's bob evened out and closing the scissors.

"Long before you came," Susan told him, waving it off. "Edmund was not kind to his sister when they were very, very small. He used to try to hit her a lot when they were toddlers. Nothing _too_ bad, I suppose, (he never really injured her), but certainly nothing I could let him get away with, either."

"I think this is too extreme, your Majesty," the faun tried again.

"Master Tumnus, I'm surprised at you!" she gasped. "You were all for punishing Edmund when he was small and smacked Lucy without any reason, and here he's done something much worse than that." The queen gestured over at Lucy. "Look how frightened she is, the poor thing!"

"_Exactly_," said Tumnus, very pointedly. "This is worse than anything _Edmund_ has ever done to her."

"You're not making any sense, Master Tumnus." Susan moaned and rubbed her temples again. "I'm going to lie down for a bit. Lucy will be happier with Peter comforting her, anyway." With that, she left the chamber, all but slamming the door behind herself.

"Tumnus," said Peter, looking down at Lucy, who had stopped crying, leaned against the front of his shoulder, then fallen asleep. "I don't think Edmund cut off her hair or tied up Maya."

The faun looked pained. "Neither do I."

**AN: Pleaseth to be Reviewingth...**


	12. And So The Plot Thickens

It was, quite possibly, the most pathetically sad-and utterly heartbreaking-thing Peter had ever seen in his life.

He had been prepared, same as Tumnus and even Susan, for screaming or fussing, for crying and whimpering, but not for this.

Lucy hadn't spoken so much as single word to anyone since she woke up (the following morning) after falling asleep in Peter's lap when he'd finished evening out her hair. There was this confused look on her face for about an hour, which faded into a determined one. Peter guessed that it was all coming back to her; that Edmund was to be punished with confinement to the southwest wing of the castle and she couldn't see her twin till his sentence was served out. Perhaps, in sleep, this information had left her, leaving her to awaken baffled.

But once she remembered, there was no stopping her.

It is likely that she felt betrayed as well, some part of her subconscious afraid that her twin had been taken away; that he was not in the castle like they all told her he was. After all, they'd never really told her when they took him away to Anvard. The memories that had faded-largely forgotten and rarely ever thought of-from that unfortunate time period returned in little frightening flashes. She couldn't rest until she was reassured, on her own terms, it wasn't like that _this_ time.

The little eight-year-old princess began strolling the southwest wing from start to finish. Occasionally, she would pause, as if listening for something, and then, shaking her head, she would press on. Nothing could distract her. Tumnus couldn't make her come and take a meal, and Susan couldn't make her learn lessons; she just waited for the first split-second when her half-sister's back was turned, no matter how briefly, and flew for the door, making her way back with impressive speed to the wing her twin was being held prisoner in.

"She's looking for Edmund," Tumnus had said, as if it needed explaining.

Peter had nodded. "Yes, of course, but why hasn't she found him yet?" Surely he would sense-or at least _hear_-his twin when she got close enough and come out to meet her in the corridor.

"He's been locked up," sighed the faun. "Susan didn't really want it done that way, even though she's angry with him, but he wouldn't stay put. All last night, he kept trying to escape. He wants to make sure Lucy's all right; he's worried about her."

This had only made Peter all the more certain Edmund was innocent of his charged crime. For why would a boy tie up his sister's animal guardian, rip out part of her hair, cut most of it off, flee from her side, leaving her to fend for herself, and then come looking for her so frantically later? Given, it _might_ have been guilt, but that didn't seem right. Surely such well-warranted guilt would have prevented something so traumatizing from happening in the first place, would it not? And why would Lucy want to be with her brother so badly if he'd been the one to cut off her hair? Lucy was not, as far as personality went, much of a 'classic victim'. True, she was a sweet child, with a great capacity for forgiveness and unconditional love (she'd evidently always forgiven her brother when he hit her as a toddler, hadn't she?), yet not many girls of her age would _want _to be friends with someone who had hacked off their hair; there had to be a limit, even to the love between twins as close as they were. And she showed not even the slightest signs of anger or resentment towards Edmund. Lucy was _smart_; Peter believed that, metaphorically, if she was burned, she was the kind of girl who would learn to keep away from fire, not seek it out.

Finally, it had happened. She'd found him. And this was what had broken Peter's heart.

She didn't know he-and Tumnus-were close by, at the turn of the staircase leading up to the chamber Edmund was locked inside of, or, if she did, she simply didn't care. She began murmuring, in her twin-speak, something into the wood of the door.

And four white fingers appeared under the door-frame. The rest of Edmund's hand wouldn't fit; it was too large to squeeze all the way under there.

Falling silent, Lucy put her hand over her twin's exposed fingertips. She was very unhappy with the fact that he was locked up, that she couldn't get at him, but there was undeniable relief that they could at least have even this much contact, each knowing the other was doing as well as possible under the circumstances, on their opposite sides of the door.

Peter felt his eyes growing moist with unshed tears. Poor Lucy. And poor Edmund, punished without even the chance to speak up for himself, since he never spoke. Well, not in English like the rest of the court, anyway.

He was suddenly snapped out of his thoughts of pity for the twins, half-wanting to find Susan, grab her by the arm, and drag her there (it seemed only fitting that if she issued the punishment, she should be among those forced to see its consequences), when he noticed Tumnus was breathing a bit heavily.

"Are you all right?" he whisper-asked softly, twisting his neck back to look at the faun.

His face did look a bit off, and he had one hand on his chest, like it was bothering him, but he shook his head, forcing a faint smile. "Oh, no, Peter, I'm fine. Just sad for the twins, is all. But I'll be right as rain in a few moments. Skipped breakfast, which didn't help; stupid of me, really. Always makes me feel a bit weak when I climb stairs on an empty stomach. Part-goat appetite and digestion and what-not, you know."

"You're sure?" Peter double-checked. "Maybe you should go sit down someplace quiet. The twins aren't going anywhere."

The faun nodded. That much was true; Edmund was confined behind that door, and Lucy wasn't going to leave him. Her hand had yet to leave his fingers. "I'm fine," Tumnus said again, but he left the stairs and went to his own quarters to rest for a bit anyway.

With Tumnus, Peter had felt justified enough in watching the twins, like a concerned friend making sure they were going to be all right, but once the faun left him, he found he suddenly felt more like a spy, like he was intruding on something private. He could come back and check on them later. In the meantime, it would be best to leave them be.

He decided to look for Susan. The throne room was empty, as were the chambers used for the majority of her lessons; even the sitting room where she liked to do her sewing was vacant. Well, vacant of _humans_, anyway. For some reason a small group of talking courtier squirrels were holding a meeting in there, chattering back and fourth excitedly-something to do with nuts.

It was the music that finally led Peter to her. The soft melody of the harpsichord being played. There was something about the preciseness of the tune that made Peter almost certain, even before he came close enough to spot her, that it was Susan playing. The rhythm was beautiful and gentle, just like her. But also a little sad; charmingly so, not sad as in overtly _depressing_, but yes, a little sad.

The study-like music chamber the young queen was playing the harpsichord in had two dark wood-framed doors of ordinary clear glass and a totem-pole shaped row of windows of multicoloured glass that cast rainbows onto the glossy hardwood flooring. There _was_ some pale gray carpeting directly under the harpsichord, but the rest was all done-up in reflective polished wood that added to the colourful effect on the right kind of sunny afternoons.

On that day, the rainbow lights fell on one of Susan's sleeves as she played. A little square of yellow-green touched the lower half of her chin on that side.

Although he wasn't sure _why_, exactly, this made Peter want to smile in spite of himself. He almost forgot that he wasn't entirely thrilled with her at the moment. The glass door was ajar and he stood to the side of it, looking in.

There was a gray cat, rather a handsome one, a tom, a little like Quantum from Peter's own world, but a just mite bigger and a great deal more intelligent-looking. One glimpse of his cool green eyes told you straight-off that he could talk and think same as any Tom, Dick, or Harry you might pull off the street. He was resting atop the harpsichord, enjoying the music, purring lightly.

But, unfortunately, the cat was not the only company Susan had at the moment; Prince Rabadash was in there, too. And the Calormene prince did not seem to particularly like Susan's playing.

Yeah, well, what does _he_ know? Thought Peter defensively, scowling in the doorway. He didn't think Rabadash would know quality music if it walked up to him, introduced itself, and did the can-can.

Rabadash walked over and put a hand down on one of Susan's shoulders. Or, to be more exact, _clamped_ a hand down. The action was more akin to a clawed bird closing its talons around the neck of some small prey it was killing than it was to an actual caring gesture of endearment.

Peter swallowed hard. Even when it wasn't completely reasonable, he almost always felt the most awful urge to hit Rabadash every time he made physical contact with Susan. He hadn't actually _done_ so, but oh he'd been_ wanting_ to, and suppressing it like mad. He might not have been a proper courtier, only some guest from another world who had been accepted into their society, but he knew well enough that hitting a prince-especially one betrothed to the queen-was publicly frowned upon. _Publicly_, because, really, Peter could think of at least four different people who would secretly applaud him behind closed doors for giving the spoiled brat the licking he so deserved. He only hoped Rabadash wouldn't stay for very many more days; he hadn't been with them at Cair long and yet one was hard-pressed to think of anyone who wasn't _already_ tired of him.

Honestly, Peter was still confused as to why Susan _wanted_ to marry that down-right unpleasant bloke in the first place. And why her advisers thought it such a good match.

Given, if you didn't_ know _Susan, you might think her nothing but a snob, and in such case figure perhaps she and Rabadash deserved each other, but once you really knew what she was like, you couldn't wish that on her. Susan was Peter's friend; he'd cared for her more deeply than he knew how to express ever since that moment he'd flipped her over his knee and into the water-filled brass tub. Quite frankly, he _liked _her, and he didn't want to see her married off to someone who wouldn't love her. And he knew her betrothed wouldn't, for the simple reason that anyone with half a brain could see Prince Rabadash was mentally incapable of loving anybody who was not tall, dark, and heir to the throne of Calormen; in other words, anyone who was not Prince Rabadash.

Tumnus, though he commented very little on Susan's betrothal as a general rule, had once, in Peter's presence said, offhandedly, "I wouldn't give a _dog_ I liked to Prince Rabadash."

But, things being as they were, Peter could do nothing but stand where he was, keeping his ears and eyes open, forcing his automatically clenched fingers to uncurl.

"You shouldn't cry," said Rabadash.

Susan had been crying a little, her tears falling on the keys. She couldn't help it. She was upset because of the twins.

Whatever others thought, the honest to Aslan truth of the matter was she didn't _like_ punishing them. Her dearest wish was that they would jolly well _behave _for once so she wouldn't have to do the 'right thing' to teach them what was proper and what wasn't. But it was so _hard_. She hadn't meant to punish Lucy, who hadn't done anything wrong, and yet anyone who saw the child's face could tell she was suffering for it. The queen simply didn't know what else to do anymore; sometimes she just wanted to run away from everything-leave the throne, leave her advisers, leave her betrothed, leave even the twins and Tumnus, dear as they were to her, just leave it all behind-but of course that was nonsense. Being a queen was part of who she was, she couldn't simply abandon that because the going wasn't as smooth as she would like. And it was quite the same with being a big sister; she could never stop caring about the twins.

"Forgive me," she replied demurely; "I fear my thoughts are elsewhere today."

"Well bring your thoughts back and stop crying, then!" Rabadash told her, frowning. "You look much nicer when you aren't crying. When you cry, your face gets all red and those awful freckles of yours stand out worse than usual."

Susan's already unhappy face fell, though she tried to force a tight smile to please the prince.

The cat gave Rabadash a dirty look.

"Shoo," he hissed, waving his hand rudely at the cat, as if to swat it down from the harpsichord.

"Well, _excuse _me!" snapped the cat, stretching out, paws in front, yawning heavily, and stalking off, head held high and tail puffed out, fur all standing up on end.

I really hate that man, Peter thought. The cat on the other hand... Now, the _cat_ he liked; practically wanted to give him a high-five for standing up to Rabadash. That is, if he didn't have paws instead of hands, making that pretty much impossible...

"Oh, and Susan?" Rabadash added.

"Yes?"

"Play something a little more cheerful." He wrinkled his nose, as if catching a whiff of something foul. "I don't like all that dull funeral stuff. None of you Narnians are very merry, are you?"

Susan bit onto her lower lip, making herself stop crying, and played a more cheerful tune. It was decent enough-and it pleased Rabadash, if only for a few moments-but it was the sort of music that is more suited to a flute than a harpsichord.

The thing that upset Peter the most was that, even though there weren't any more tears in Susan's eyes, you could still tell she wanted to cry. She was miserable, only Rabadash didn't give a fig about that, so long as she _acted_ happy for his benefit; because _he_ liked to see her smile since it was so pretty. Whether or not the smile reached her heart in earnest, he didn't much care.

"Delightful," simpered Rabadash. "Simply delightful!" Then, "Do you ever sing, Susan? I've never heard you sing. Tomorrow, I'll pick out a song with words for you to sing along to."

"What if I don't want to sing?" Susan murmured, head down, seemingly speaking more to the harpsichord than to Rabadash.

"It would _please_ me," he said simply, as if that were the deciding factor in everything in the known universe. "And if you're going to be my wife, you ought to _want_ to please me."

"I'm weary of playing," said Susan suddenly. She liked the harpsichord a great deal, but not that song, and not after she'd been practicing on it for two hours straight while Rabadash stared at her. "Isn't there anything else that would amuse you?"

"I don't know," he said, reaching up and stroking his chin in a ponderous fashion. "Do you want to watch me practice my jousting?"

No, she didn't. "Why don't _you _watch _me_ do a bit of archery?"

"Archery's a vulgar sport for a lady," Rabadash declared. "I would much rather you studied dancing. I like dancing."

"So do I," Susan said flatly. "And I do study it. I've dancing lessons every other week. I told you before."

"Yes, yes," he waved it off. "Dancing in my country is better, though."

Then why don't you go back _there_? Peter thought furiously.

"When we're married, Susan, I don't think I'll want you shooting arrows anymore."

"But I like archery," she protested.

"So do I, when it's done by a man, and _properly_."

"I _am_ a proper archer!" She almost rose from her seat in a confrontational fashion, only restraining herself at the last possible moment.

"Don't shout so, O my beautiful one, it gives me a headache."

"What if," suggested Susan, as levelly as she could manage, "we played some card games? Lady Catalina's better at them than I, but she taught me-"

Rabadash cut her off. "I would rather wait until after we are wed to play cards."

"Why?" Susan asked.

"Because, in Calormen, it is a law that the wife always has to let her husband win at card games." He smirked. "That will be more fun. I don't like losing."

Susan sighed. "On second thought, I think I'll play the harpsichord a while longer."

Disgusted, Peter turned and headed down the corridor.

Two hedgehogs and a centaur were putting up a notice on a marble pillar.

"What's that?" Peter asked them.

"It's a play. Every year or so we put one on here at Cair," said the centaur. "We didn't have one last year; it was canceled due to scheduling conflicts with the royal advisers. Queen Susan is always involved in the productions, you know, they never go quite right without her direction."

One of the hedgehogs piped up, "And we're looking for a cast."

Peter glanced at the notice, now that it was up and the centaur and hedgehogs had moved aside so he could see it better.

_Sleeping Beauty_.

The story that, in his own world, was a simple fairytale, a Disney film, and a ballet, was, here, actually a grand five-act play written by Narnia's equivalent of William Shakespeare. There were several differences from the fairytale he knew, even the older variants, but the basic story remained. Ironically, _Sleeping Beauty_ had been included in the copper-bound book of stage-plays Doctor Cornelius had left at his bedside that morning.

"Peter!" Tumnus appeared at the far end of the corridor, looking pale. His brief rest was apparently over.

Peter ran over to him. "What is it? What happened?"

"Come with me quickly," said Tumnus, grasping his arm and pulling him along.

Once they were out of ear-shot of the centaur and hedgehogs, Peter asked, in a low voice, "Is it the twins? Is Lucy all right?"

"They're all right," he assured him hurriedly. "Sound asleep when I found them."

"_Them_?" Peter echoed. Edmund and Lucy were meant to be separated all day, Edmund being punished and everything...

Tumnus nodded. "Oh, yes, you heard me right."

Peter didn't know if he wanted to smile or else frown. "I'll be! She got passed that door, didn't she?" There was nothing Lucy couldn't-or wouldn't-do once she set her mind to it. It was a quality of hers that Peter both admired and suffered a great deal of anxiety over at the same time.

"She got to Edmund," Tumnus told him, "but she didn't bother with the door. She knew it was locked and no one would give her the key."

"Then how...?"

"You will have to see this for yourself."

When they reached the chamber Edmund had been locked up in, Tumnus pulled out a key.

"You could have let him out hours ago!" Peter blurted at the sight of the key being turned in the lock. "Or let Lucy in to see him."

"Against the queen's wishes?" The faun shrugged.

"Point taken."

Inside, all seemed relatively peaceful. A small night-stand had been upset, turned over on its side, but everything else seemed to be in good order. There was a large bed at the far end of the chamber, and the twins, exhausted but contented, were asleep behind the sheer pale purple canopy, curled up side by side in a fetal position facing each other, fingers intertwined and faces so close together the tips of their noses were almost touching. They were safe, and that was what mattered most.

There was, however, a slight draft in the room. It was a good thing it wasn't cold out, or the twins could take a chill. If only he could see where it was...

And that was when Peter saw it: the broken window and the glass sprayed out on the floor.

Looking back at Lucy, he saw that she was not entirely all right. The back of one of her hands, partly concealed by the folds in the crimson bedspread, had dried blood on it, and some of her knuckles were badly chaffed.

The jagged hole in the window was just the right size, now that Peter really thought about it, for a child's fist to have crashed through, perhaps holding a large rock for stronger impact. Then the hand could have reached inside for the small Lion's head-shaped gold latch that held the French-style window closed...

But the question was, what would have made Lucy so desperate to get in that she would suffer a hand injury to accomplish her goal? And why didn't Edmund simply open the window _for_ her?

"How did she...?" Peter's voice faltered.

"Some of the moles reported that the gardener's ladder was misplaced," said Tumnus.

"No ladder could have been tall enough," he noted.

"You're right." The faun shuddered. "And it's frightening to think of it, but she must have only used the ladder to go up as far as it could reach, and then climbed the rest of the wall, clinging to the windows, with her bare hands."

"If she used a rock," Peter pondered aloud, "to break the window, she could have been keeping it in a smock pocket or something till she needed it."

Tumnus nodded grimly.

"Should Susan be told?"

The faun winced. "I don't know, Peter. I think-I know it isn't right, that the queen is supposed to know everything, so please forgive me-but I think...I think... Certainly _not_."

"She _would_ be upset." He could understand that. After all, _he_ was a little upset. What if Lucy had fallen? She could have been crippled, or _dead_!

"Yes," agreed the faun, "she would be. But it isn't her anger or disappointment in itself I worry about. Of course, she would have every right to be anxious, but I fear that she might think of extending Edmund's punishment, which would only make things worse. Something of this sort would most likely happen all over again."

"We can make up excuses for the broken window, can't we?"

Tumnus considered for a moment. "None that immediately come to mind, but windows have been broken before. Accidents _do_ happen. Now, if only the glass was on the _other _side, it would be easier..."

"Don't worry," interjected Peter, "we'll think of something."

"Lucy's hand..."

"That's easier." Peter was surprised by how simple this lie would be; normally he didn't think of himself as a good liar, simply because he was a fairly truthful person by nature. "Lucy plays with a broken tea-set. We can tell Susan she cut her hand up on a china shard."

"Why would she grip a piece of a tea-set with the _back_ of her hand?"

Peter shrugged. "Do you have a more probable story?"

"No," Tumnus admitted. "That will have to do."

Peter did feel bad about lying to Susan, same as he knew Tumnus did, but he didn't see any other way out. He wanted to help Susan, and felt frustrated that he couldn't; she was bound to her problems and there was nothing he could do about it. However, he also wanted to help the twins, and if he truly could help them, even if it meant telling a deliberate untruth to Susan... Well, he'd have to go through with the lie, then, wouldn't he? Except, Susan was his _friend_; and he didn't think she would have lied to _him_ like this. True, she wasn't always completely honest with him, making out that things were all right when they weren't, but those weren't real lies; she _believed_ them, or at least _wanted _to badly enough to say them repeatedly and try to make them sound logical. His lie, on the other hand, was going to be just that: a big _lie_. He knew, more or less, what had really happened to Lucy's hand and why the window was broken, and he was going to tell the queen some made up story that had nothing whatever to do with the real events.

Sighing, Peter went over to the window and looked at his ghostly reflection in the unbroken side of the window. This was probably treason, telling untruths to the queen of Narnia. Could he do time in a dungeon for this? "Can you say five to ten?" he muttered to his own see-through face staring back at him.

That night, Peter couldn't sleep. Whether it was mere restlessness, the guilt of telling some seriously blatant fibs to the queen, worry over Lucy and Edmund in general, or else simply that it was a full moon, he couldn't say. He tossed and turned endlessly. Sleep was miles and miles away from him. His eyelids didn't want to stay shut, and his brain refused to turn off-refused even to count backwards from ten to see if that helped.

Finally, he did reach the land of nod; the shores of sleep were still fuzzy, his slumber not particularly deep yet, but oblivion, in any of its varying degrees, is always a sweet welcome to a tired mind.

Then a soft but firm voice pulled him out of it. "Peter?" Someone was shaking his shoulder. "You awake?"

Peter cracked one eye open and saw Susan kneeling at his bedside. "What do you think?" he mumble-groused.

"I think you're more of a morning person," she said teasingly.

"Funny," he yawned.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." He tried to roll over and go back to sleep before any hope of doing so fled from him again, but no such luck.

"I'm bored."

There it was... Going, going, _gone_! He wasn't getting to sleep tonight. Sighing, he sat up. "I didn't think queens ever had time to _get_ bored."

"During the day I never do," Susan said quietly. "But it's nighttime now and I can't sleep."

"Then why aren't you in the throne room," Peter wanted to know, "holding imaginary audiences?"

"Don't mock me." Susan pouted. She was beginning to wish she'd never told him about that.

"I'm not," he swore. "Really. I'm just wondering."

"I can't concentrate," she explained, shaking her head, "and it's quite stuffy in the throne room tonight. I can't practice addressing my subjects in such ghastly heat."

"So what do you want to do?"

"Go for a walk outside, I suppose."

"And it never occurred to you to wake up one of your guards to escort you?"

Susan looked rather stricken. "Peter! _Wake_ a guard? In the dead of night? When there isn't a fire or a raid, and no one is bleeding or dying? By the Lion, that would be discourteous!"

"You had no problem waking _me_," he pointed out.

"Perhaps I wanted to walk with a friend," she said, her voice faltering rather pathetically.

"Oh, don't give me that look!" That was so unfair, the expression she was currently directing at him; how was he supposed to stay grumpy at someone with a face like that? And how did she make her blue eyes go so _big_? He wondered if she practiced that look in the mirror when she was alone. Knowing Susan, he wouldn't put it past her.

"I'm going," she said sweetly. "I just don't want to go alone."

"Hang it all, Susan...!"

"Please?" She reached for his hand. "I'm tired of being in the castle, Peter. It's my home, and I love it, but I'm tired. I feel like I'm suffocating in here. All I want is one walk outside of these walls. I don't even care _where_. The forest, maybe."

"All right," he gave in. "Can I have five minutes to get dressed?"

"Unless you fancy wandering the forest in your nightclothes, I would assume such."

He gave her a tight smirk.

"All right, all right. I'm going. I'll be outside the door, waiting."

"Very impatiently," Peter joked.

Less than twenty minutes later, Cair Paravel was at their backs and they were wandering the forest, keeping near a stream so as to avoid getting lost. Even Susan, who knew that forest fairly well (though not quite so well as Edmund and Lucy did), knew better than to go off onto random paths in a dense, wild place in the dead of night.

The trunks of the trees all looked silvery in the moonlight, the leaves-green in the daylight hours-were a fine ebony black.

They had come to one of the wider parts of the stream when Susan paused to catch her breath and wipe a bit of sweat off her brow. It was humid, even outside, but she was still glad she had come. True, this wasn't her usual way, going off without a word to her courtiers, that was more the twins' way of doing things, but she told herself that she wasn't really sneaking off on her own; not if she had Peter with her. She was being _considerate_, not bothering anyone else with her insomnia.

"Why don't you jump in?" Peter suggested.

"Excuse me?" Susan looked somewhere between stunned and appalled.

"Are their leeches in there or something?"

"There are no _leeches_!" she snapped, as if his insinuating the existence of leeches in the stream were somehow a direct insult to her.

"You can't swim, can you?" he asked flatly.

"I happen to be the best swimmer here at Cair," Susan told him, folding her arms across her chest.

"I've never seen you swim," said Peter. "Not once in all the time I've lived here."

"I'm a very busy person," she said.

"Uh-huh..."

"What is that tone?" She glared at him.

"There's no tone."

"Is so."

"Is not."

"Is so."

Peter, for about two seconds, felt the urge to blurt out, "Is not, _infinity_!" But he restrained himself; it would have been extremely childish to say that, he knew. Instead, he said, coolly, "The only time I've ever seen you in the water was when I flipped you over my knee into that tub."

Susan laughed at that. "Oh, that was such a long time ago. I'm sorry I was so beastly to you then."

"I'm a bit tempted, Queen Susan," he said, taking a step towards her, "to just pick you up and drop you in that stream."

"Well, there's no reason to ruin my dress," she said, her face so dead-serious that Peter had to bite back a smile. "I haven't caused you to almost die _lately_."

"All right, Su." Peter nodded, turned back to the stream, and started unbuttoning his jerkin.

"_What_ are you doing?"

"Honestly, Su, just because _you _don't want to swim doesn't mean_ I_ can't."

"I hope the leeches get you."

"You just told me there weren't any."

"Well, I hope they show up for the first time tonight, then," she decided, nodding for emphasis.

Peter laughed, kicked off his boots, and stepped into the stream.

Susan hesitated. Finally, she gave in and, taking off her dress, prepared to go into the water.

When she noticed Peter glancing at her, she exclaimed, "Oh, for pity's sake, don't _look _at me in my undergarments! Turn around until I get into the water." (Given the fact that Susan's 'undergarments' were long-sleeved frilly things that covered her from the ends of her kneecaps all the way to the bottom of her neck, she really had nothing to worry about.)

In the water, Susan went under and pulled on Peter's feet, making him let out a small yelp of surprise. He hadn't expected her to be so quick. She was probably the fastest swimmer he'd ever seen.

"_Who_ can't swim, Peter?" she asked upon resurfacing.

He smiled, wondering if anyone had ever told Susan that her whole face lit up like a candle when she was happy.

She really was very, very beautiful.

**AN: Please Review.**


	13. In Which, A Fight Reveals The Truth

Peter looked up from his book, and Susan looked up from her sewing.

A flustered-looking servant girl with slightly slitted pupils, who might have been a faun (her legs were hidden under long gray skirts and her hair was so thick it hid her horns, if she had them), appeared in the doorway. "Please come quick, your Majesty, I beg of you."

"What happened?" Peter asked, immediately standing, although it was Susan the servant girl had addressed, not him.

Susan said nothing at all, but her face went grave, as if she sensed that whatever it was must surely be horrible, and she rose up at his side, making for the door, lifting the long plum-and-lavender coloured skirts of her dress well over her shoes so she did not trip as she ran.

"It's the princes," the servant girl gasped breathlessly to Peter as he dashed passed her, running to catch up with Susan. "They're-" But she was cut off, for she could not keep up with the queen, as Peter was doing, and soon they were both out of ear-shot.

The clamor of swords being smashed hard against one another, blows being swiftly blocked, sounded loudly.

Susan's heart thudded in her chest as she made her way down a flight of stairs and out to one of the side courtyards, Peter at her heels.

Rabadash and Edmund were fighting. Not for practice, or in a friendly duel, but in earnest; no matter that Rabadash was at least seventeen and Edmund was a boy of no more than eight years.

For his size, Edmund fought well. No one had ever noticed, but being a quiet, resourceful kind of boy, he had often watched, not only grown noblemen and knights of full size handling swords, but also dwarfs. Especially he had paid very close attention to the dwarfs. Because, though one day he would be taller than them (he was actually a bit tall for his age as it was-much taller than _Peter_ had been at eight years old, anyway), in his mind he noted a connection between the size of things made for him, currently a child, and that of items made for dwarfs. These were, he'd taken in carefully, surprisingly similar. So whenever he spotted a dwarf sparring with a grown human, his eyes had watched, sorting out technique and other important lessons. And that was what was keeping him from being disarmed-or maimed-by Prince Rabadash.

Peter, who had believed a seven-year-old Edmund with a stick easy enough to push out of the way at a moment's notice if need be, found he thought rather differently now. Lucy's twin _clearly_ knew how to fight; here was a little chap who knew exactly what he was doing and what he was up against. There was sweat on his brow, beads of it rolling down his face, the tips of his dark hair were damp with perspiration; none of this was_ easy _for the Narnian prince, but he wasn't backing down.

Lucy, Maya on her left side and Maugrim on her right, appeared, sweaty and disheveled, at the opposite end of the courtyard. Her lips parted, causing her mouth to hang slightly agape, when she saw her twin fighting Rabadash, but she said nothing.

Susan, on the other hand, had _plenty _to say, and no problem shouting it at the top of her lungs to make sure she was heard. "Stop it!" she screamed. "Stop it, the _both _of you! Rabadash, please, he's just a boy, don't hurt him! Edmund, by the Lion! What's gotten into you? Leave him alone! Stop fighting him, I say! Both of you drop your swords right now, I _order_ you to!"

But they wouldn't listen to her. Oh, no, not _then_; things had gone way too far for that. Rabadash took such blows and slashes at Edmund that, if he had been slower and not so swift and clever for his size and age, the Calormene prince might have taken off his head from his shoulders.

Maugrim growled, as if he wanted to run forward and maul Rabadash at once, but Lucy, still very startled, gave him one wary sideways look and the wolf stayed put for the moment, fur bristled and teeth bared regardless.

Tumnus appeared behind Peter, his face gone quite pale but his expression not one of complete horror, not like Susan's was.

"Aren't you going to go out there and..." Peter felt his voice trailing off. "I don't know..." he struggled to find the words to the question he meant to ask. "Aren't you going to try to, oh, do something to... To _stop _this? What if Rabadash hurts...?" His throat closed and his voice trailed off again; he seemed unable to finish most of his sentences.

The faun shrugged. "_My_ wager's on Edmund."

"But Rabadash is bigger," Peter whispered. "And probably stronger by default."

"Strength does not win a battle, Peter," Tumnus told him. In actuality, the faun did not do much sword-fighting, but he had read several books on the subject and was wise to its ways.

"No," he said softly, "but I bet it helps."

"I've read that speed is every bit as important as strength."

That was true enough, but Rabadash had speed as well, and longer legs than Edmund. To say the fight was merely _uneven_ was a gross understatement.

But Edmund kept Rabadash on his feet, moving quickly from place to place, the sword he was using always held out in front of him in such a way so as to protect him when necessary without making it hard to lower it slightly and move as need be. Through it all, he ignored the shrill shouting of his sister the queen; he forced himself to tune it out as best he could, for he could not be distracted without disastrous results.

Somehow or other, he eventually managed to get the Calormene prince close to the back of a wall with a couple of low stone steps in front of it.

In olden times, there had been a well in this courtyard, though ever since the day of Edmund's great, great grandparents the main well at Cair had been in the apple orchard. Back before that, royal servants and kings returning from long but not publicly-known journeys came into that very courtyard for water upon their arrival, and as likely as not tethered their beasts of burden to an iron ring hanging from the wall, directly above those stone steps. Now, however, the ring was long gone and all that remained was its hook.

It was this very hook that caused Rabadash to lose the fight. He jumped up onto the steps, thinking himself very grand, certain he could run the little brat through, or at least hurt him badly enough that he wouldn't be fighting him-or _anyone_-ever again, by throwing himself and his curved Calormene sword down upon him, pressing all his weight and the blade of his sword against his chest.

Lucy let out an audible squeak of terror when she saw what was happening. Maya whimpered; and Maugrim started to pad away from Lucy's side, aiming towards the middle of the courtyard. Susan lost her head altogether and was in hysterics, crying and shaking and hoarsely blurting out orders, but she stopped mid-sob, rather surprised when Rabadash's attack never reached Edmund at all.

The back of Rabadash's tunic was caught on the hook, leaving him hanging like a piece of laundry hung up to dry. He kicked and squirmed and cursed quite a bit, thrashing his arms about, unable to get himself down.

Edmund, for his part, arched a single dark eyebrow and blinked at him.

"You see, Peter?" Tumnus said suddenly. "Remember that in the future."

"Remember what?"

"The swordsman in his own land has the advantage." He gestured at Edmund with his chin. "The visitor _can_ win, but if he doesn't respect the host's given advantage, taking it for granted, letting pride blind him, he can end up like a fish out of water."

Peter looked at Rabadash wiggling on his hook, thought of how very silly Susan's betrothed looked, and smiled.

Edmund, disarming Rabadash at once by taking his sword away and throwing it so that it skidded halfway across the courtyard, picked up and raised his own sword, and glared at him, slowly climbing up the steps threateningly.

"Oh, get away!" shouted Rabadash, kicking again. "No, on second thought, take me down from here, give me back my sword, and fight me _properly_! If you are not a coward."

He didn't back off, he just kept on glaring, and finally, when he could reach, he pressed his blade against Rabadash's middle (actually, he'd meant to put the blade to his _chest_, but he simply wasn't tall enough for that, even standing on the steps, so he had to make do with his middle).

"What do you want, unnatural child?" sneered Rabadash.

Edmund's eyes flickered over to his twin; only for a moment before looking back at Rabadash, but it was long enough for the Calormene prince to understand what he meant.

"Edmund, leave him alone!" Susan had had just about enough, and she was coming forward to nudge Edmund out of the way and help her betrothed down from the hook. "I'm so sorry, Prince Rabadash, he's not usually..."

Rabadash wasn't paying any attention to her. "Yes," he hissed down at Edmund. "_I_ did it!"

Edmund nodded.

Rolling his eyes, Rabadash said, his voice louder, "Yes, I tied up that nasty wolf and cut off your sister's hair. You both needed to be taught a sharp lesson."

Susan stopped, appalled by his confession.

To think she had never even truly suspected...! She had believed it was _Edmund _who had cut off all of Lucy's beautiful hair in pure malice and needed to be punished. How could Rabadash, her dark and handsome prince who was supposed to marry her, have done such a thing?

Oh, how _dare_ he!

It couldn't be true, it _couldn't_!

But one glance in Lucy's direction was enough to tell her it _was_ true.

Well, Rabadash was going to have to get _himself_ down from that hook, because she was too angry to even _look _at him. He'd hurt her little sister! One of the two precious babies she had taken care of and loved and done everything in her power to protect ever since her father died!

Furious, Susan turned around, walked away, and stormed out of the courtyard without another word.

"You got what you wanted," Rabadash spat, glowering at Edmund. "Now. Let. Me. _Down_."

Putting his sword away, Edmund said, "Sarteminteh."

As it was a word from their twin language, it was only Lucy who actually understood what her brother had said, but it was pretty easy to figure out from context. Peter was fairly sure it meant something to the effect of 'sure thing' or 'certainly'.

"You don't even know how to speak properly and yet you would call yourself a prince," taunted Rabadash as Edmund was grabbing onto his legs to help him down.

What an idiot, Peter thought; knowing full-well that you should never insult someone when they're in the process of getting you out of some dilemma you can't solve for yourself.

Worse still, as soon as he was freed, Rabadash grabbed onto Edmund's arm. His grip was hard, and it was obvious he meant to do something dreadful to him, though whether he planned to try to break the boy's arm or else simply throw him down the two steps and onto the courtyard-ground, full-impact, never became clear.

For, of course, both Tumnus and Peter came rushing in that direction at once to defend him, even if it did seem as if they mightn't make it in time, but turned out to be unnecessary; Maugrim leapt at Rabadash and bit him on the leg.

Crying out, he let go of Edmund's arm.

Edmund, losing balance, almost fell and hit his head, but Tumnus caught him. "It's all right," he said to the boy in his arms. "I've got you. You're safe now."

Maugrim let go of Rabadash, who was sprawled out on the steps like a cripple, whimpering.

"Edmund..." Peter said. "I never believed it was you." All along he had never been able to fathom Edmund, even with all his strange ways, deliberately harming his twin; _Rabadash_ doing a thing like that, on the other hand, it sickened him, but he had no doubts.

Edmund nodded as if to say, "I know," lightly freeing himself from the faun's grasp.

"I'm going to get you for this," Rabadash swore, his eyes full of nothing but deep hatred for the young Narnian prince.

Later that day, Peter thought about what would happen to Rabadash now that what he'd done to Lucy had been revealed. Would they send him back to his own country in disgrace? Write a letter of outrage to the Tisroc regarding his son's behavior? Call off his betrothal to Susan? Make him spend a few days under house-arrest? Frankly, there were several things Peter himself would have liked to do-namely to _throttle_ Rabadash and threaten that if he ever put a hand on poor Princess Lucy again his life would be forfeit-but he understood, to some degree, that in royal courts there had to be some level of decorum. What Edmund had done with the sword had been brave, certainly, but also rash; if things had gone wrong, it would hardly have been considered a proper challenge, meaning Rabadash might have gotten off easy even if the result had been something as drastic as Edmund being a vegetable or cripple for life. It wasn't fair, but there _were_ rules. Naturally, he was still glad the boy had broken those rules for Lucy's sake. All the same, it was probably best that he keep on restraining himself from grabbing Rabadash by his perfumed Calormene robes and hurling him out of a tower window; Susan's advisers would deal with him. After all, how could anyone in charge of the security of a country overlook something as horrid as what Rabadash had done? Yes, it would all be sorted. He had nothing to worry over.

But, low and behold, as evening set in and no servants gossiped of anything being done about Rabadash (although they _did_ speak a great deal of his fight with Edmund and how beastly it had been of the Calormene prince to cut off the hair of their princess, their tones full of fury, some of the kitchen servants scouring pots with unusual vim and clanging silverware together angrily), Peter couldn't help but think something wasn't _right_. And then Rabadash appeared at supper, none the worse for his courtyard scuffle with Edmund, save for a bad limp he now sustained-courtesy of Maugrim's powerful jaws.

After supper, Peter pulled Susan aside, into a quiet-currently vacant-antechamber (usually used by Tumnus and some other fauns for quiet study and meditation, thus the presence of a single tall bookshelf and a number of cushioned rocking-chairs).

"Su," he said softly and urgently, "when is Prince Rabadash leaving?"

She blinked at him. "I don't know. He never mentioned. No longer than he was originally planning to stay, I suppose, whatever time-period that entails."

"He isn't being sent away?"

"_Sent away_?" Susan knitted her brows. "No, of course not. Why would you think...?"

"Susan, after what he did to Lucy," Peter said slowly, "how can he stay here? And you're angry with him; you wouldn't even look at him at supper."

"Well of _course _I'm angry!" Susan snapped incredulously. "He _cut off my sister's hair_! Not to mention he never said a word, when he _must _have known poor Ed was being punished for it. Why _shouldn't_ I be angry?"

"No, I agree with you whole-heartedly," Peter injected hurriedly, putting up his hands. "I just don't understand why he's still going around as if he did nothing wrong."

"He's my betrothed, Peter." Susan looked down at her feet, shaking her head.

"_Still_?" he blurted.

She glanced up. "I_ can't_ send him away, surely you know that."

"But your advisers," Peter fumbled; "they can-"

She swallowed hard, folding her arms so that her hands were under her elbows. "No, Peter, there's nothing to be done."

"You're still marrying him." Peter couldn't believe his ears. "After _everything_!"

"Perhaps he can change." There was no hiding the doubt in Susan's voice. "He's young yet... He doesn't understand that Narnians live differently than he was brought up."

"Unbelievable! You're making _excuses_ for him!"

"How else do you expect me to live, Peter?" Susan murmured. "How else? I have to marry him; so I_ have_ to believe there's good in him somewhere."

"You know he would have_ killed _Edmund today, without a second thought," Peter growled.

Girl of thirteen though the queen was, she looked, at that moment, no more than ten or eleven; her eyes were listless and her face was pale. "I can protect the twins. I can make Rabadash promise he won't... I mean, I'll give him anything he wants, if he won't hurt them. I can make him promise, I know I can."

"No, Susan, you can't," Peter said vehemently. "The only way you can protect the twins is if you send Rabadash back to Calormen for _good_."

"I can't," she faltered. "Please try to understand."

"I can't," he said. "I can't understand you doing this to yourself and your family."

"I'm meant to marry him when I turn fifteen," Susan said. "Promises between countries and kingdoms were made. Everything had been arranged; I can't go back on that."

"_Can't_?" Peter challenged. "Or don't _want_ to?"

"He is a prince."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"He might be nicer after we're married," Susan said quietly. "Once Edmund and Lucy are his family, too, surely he won't do anything to them."

"The only thing that will change after you're married," Peter told her hotly, his face going a bit red, "is that you'll have to lose at card games."

Susan's eyes widened and she let go of her elbows. "Have you been spying on me?"

"No," he snorted. "Sound travels."

"Of all the cheek..."

He cut her off. "All that will change, Su, is that you will go from being more than half his slave, to a full one."

Susan felt as if she had been slapped across the face. "I am no one's _slave_! I am the High Queen of Narnia!"

"Could have fooled me," Peter grumbled. "He was mean to you and to the twins, but you still worship him."

"That's not true."

"Then why isn't he being punished for what he did?"

"I would think being bitten on the leg was punishment enough!" she exclaimed. "Wouldn't you?"

"Let me think about that," Peter said, feigning pensiveness. "Um, _no_!" Then, "Do you know why Maugrim bit him? Because he tried to hurt Edmund _after _you left; _after_ Edmund did the honourable thing and helped him down."

"Maugrim tells one story, Rabadash tells another..." Susan shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know..."

"Susan, I was _there_!" Peter cried. "I saw the whole thing! I _know _what happened. And you know what? I think you do, too." He turned, as if preparing to leave. "You just don't want to admit it."

"Why are you being so unkind to me?" Susan's voice quivered. "I thought we were friends."

"I'm not sure if I want to be your friend," said Peter. "Not the way you have friends."

"Peter, you have no idea-"

"You're just going to let him walk after everything he's done?" Peter turned to face her again. "Well, you know what? _I'm_ not!"

Peter!" She ran forward and grabbed his arm. "Stop! Don't! Please. Listen to me. I will not have you fighting him in my court."

"Yes, your Majesty," he said sourly, his voice so bitter and stiff it made her want to cry.

Storming out into the corridor, Peter almost banged right into Caspian, Catalina, and some friendly-looking fair-headed chap about two years younger than himself.

"Oh, Peter!" Catalina exclaimed excitedly. "There you are. I want you to meet my" -she paused and glanced at Caspian- "_our _younger brother, Tirian." Smiling, she gestured at the fair-haired boy. "Tirian, this is the man who owns that lovely unicorn you gave an apple to in the stables."

"You fed my unicorn?"

"Oh, I'm sorry." Tirian's expression became instantly apologetic. "Was I not supposed to?"

"Oh no, it's fine," Peter assured him. "It's nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too."

Tirian seemed a nice, kindly boy with fine courtly manners (much more genuinely prince-like than Rabadash), but what baffled Peter was that the boy, aside from having some similar mannerisms to Caspian, looked nothing at all like his siblings. Perhaps his mother was a Telmarine (and that was doubtful enough), but, if so, his father would have been as blonde as a Viking.

"He is adopted," Caspian explained, understanding.

"Why wasn't he at supper?" Peter asked.

"I had something in my room, milord," Tirian answered for himself. "I've only just arrived a few hours ago."

"I'm not a lord," Peter told him. "Please, call me Peter; your brother and sister do."

"I've come from Archenland," he said.

"He's been a ward there for many years," Catalina said. "Though he's my brother and Caspian's by adoption, he was sent away to the court of King Lune, years and years ago. We've finally been able to send for him. We knew Susan would welcome him warmly enough, but King Lune and his boys, Cor and Corin, were hard-pressed to let him go; they're so fond of him. But I said, 'so are we,' and they agreed." She put her hand on Tirian's shoulder. "Come, Tirian, you must meet Lord Trumpkin and Lady Adeline."

"Did you hear?" laughed Caspian. "They are probably going to be the leads in _Sleeping Beauty _this year. It would be the first time a dwarf has ever been cast in the role."

Peter would have grinned, if he'd been in a better mood. He _had_ to see this play if _Trumpkin _was going to be in it.

"You really ought to meet the twins, but they've gone and locked themselves up in the nursery again," Catalina sighed.

"I remember Edmund, from when he came to Anvard," said Tirian, a little sadly. "He was very reclusive, but I saw him a few times. I had never seen a boy who looked so miserable in my life. Worst of all was whenever he saw Cor and Corin together; he looked like an amputee who has lost his leg watching his peers in a foot-race."

"Do not let Catalina fool you," Caspian teased; "she's hoping Tirian and Lucy will be a match one day."

"Lucy's only a _child_," grunted Peter protectively. "And he's a bit old."

"Only four years older," Catalina retorted. "And all children do grow up eventually, Peter. Besides, Caspian's only being a pain. I merely want them to be friends-Tirian, Lucy, and Edmund-nothing could be more innocent."

"You know the twins do not let others in," Caspian pointed out. "They keep to themselves. They probably won't even _speak _to Tirian. _Perhaps_ Lucy will manage a quick hello in English, at best."

"Lucy talks to Peter," Catalina argued. "That's what made me think of it, actually. There was never any need to separate the twins. Susan ought to have simply put other children around them growing up. But they are only eight; there's still time. I only worry because the twins seem so trapped in themselves."

Peter shook his head. "No, Catalina, not _trapped_, at _home_. They know there is a big world out there, but how can they live in that world when no one will stand aside and let them learn to live in their own _first_?"

**AN: Please leaveth a review.**


	14. Wolfsbane

**AN: Chapter fourteen!**

"All right," said Susan in a very authoritative tone of voice, pointing at a hollow stone gargoyle prop. "We need to move _that _over _there_." She gestured with her hand, indicating the general area she was referring to. "The actors might trip over it. Anything knee-length or lower _cannot _be in the way of the path to the bed. Speaking of which, where are the bedposts? Why am I looking at a lone framed mattress?"

"They're bringing them down as we speak, your Majesty," a servant close at hand, working on shortening the length of a costume doublet, said. "And are we_ certain_ Trumpkin is to play the part of the king's son? Everything will need to be readjusted to his height."

"Lower the mattress," pipped a talking squirrel, sitting on the windowsill to their right.

"Or put steps in front of it," suggested a centaur, meaning only to be helpful, though his companion-standing beside him-had to swallow back a faint snicker, resulting in a light snort.

"We were expecting someone, you know, _taller_," said the chief of the talking mice-called Reepicheep-who, along with his all mousy knights, had been helping tie ropes and arrange the curtains.

Trumpkin, walking in just as they were speaking, grunted, "You're one to talk."

Reepicheep cocked his head at the dwarf. "Is that supposed to be irony?"

"Susan, there you are!" Peridan walked up to her holding a script and shaking his head. "I've got to be honest, I'm having a harder time doing the whole villainous manslayer bit than I thought. So, I was wondering, can I just act like my man_servant_ instead?"

"What?" She crinkled her forehead and took a step back. "How do you mean?"

"You know, sort of like, 'Tea or coffee, Milord? Now, pardon me, sir, but I must kill you'." For what it was worth, Peridan _did_ do a very on-spot depiction of his manservant's voice and mannerisms, though what in the world it actually had in common with the villainous knight from Narnia's _Sleeping Beauty _was never quite figured out.

A gray-bearded dwarf, impressed for some reason, smiled and pointed at Peridan approvingly.

The queen, flabbergasted, shook it off after a moment of horrified pause, and said, perfectly clearly, "No. Absolutely not. Please do the lines the way they're written, Peridan."

Sighing, Lord Peridan slumped his shoulders and walked off, going over the script again.

Susan glanced around once more. "Where are the flowers?"

"Here." Peter came forward, carrying an armload of the requested flowers. There were daffodils, amaranth, white roses, and some other pale blueish-purple flower he didn't know the name of. The moles who managed the garden had dug them up and gathered them into careful arrangements; his job was simply to strew, place, and drape them over whatever place the queen or her attendants helping with preparations for _Sleeping Beauty _indicated.

"Thanks," said Susan, her voice gone a bit feeble. She knew Peter was still cross with her and wished he would see sense and quit being so. Right then, what she needed was a _friend_, not a sullen flower-boy. She still didn't understand why he should be so cold to her for no other reason than her unavoidable future marriage to Prince Rabadash. It seemed highly unfair.

For his part, Peter nodded, not even making full eye-contact, and put half the flowers down next to the squirrel on the sill.

"Peter," she whisper-hissed, going over to him. "Please speak to me."

"What about, your Majesty?" he mumbled, taking the remainder of the flowers over to where a talking badger was setting up a trunk-prop that looked like an over-sized pirate's treasure chest.

"You can't stay sulky with me for ever," she protested.

He ignored her and addressed the badger instead. "Do I put these _on_ the trunk, or _in_ it?"

"By the Lion, will you forget about the silly weeds for a moment!" She took the flowers out of his arms and dumped them into the badger's out-stretched paws. "You, do something with these."

Her voice must have been uncharacteristically harsh, even for one of her less-than-contented moods, because the badger gave her a sad, stung facial expression and blinked twice.

"_Please_," she amended kindly. "I'm sorry."

The badger nodded and went to do as she bid him.

"Susan," said Peter, shrugging, "I really don't think we have anything to talk about."

"Listen, I-" she began, before three centaurs picked up a large sign, revealing Edmund and Lucy in the corner, playing with the silver-painted wooden sword-props. "Oh, don't play with those. Edmund, you'll snap them; you know you will. I need them to be in one piece for the play and then you can damage the props to your heart's contentment. Lucy, watch what you're picking up; mind you don't get another splinter." Turning back to Peter, she continued, "I know things have been...and that you..."

"Look, Queen Susan," he said distantly, "I told Tumnus I would help with the flowers when he asked me on your behalf. And I am. Or, at least, I _was_, before you released me of my task for no reason."

"There is every reason in the world, I-" she began, hardly knowing how she meant to finish. "Oh, the bedposts are here."

Sure enough, a team of centaurs and pre-adolescent giants were entering the practice chamber carrying four, elegantly carved, rather heavy, mahogany bedposts. Unlike the gargoyle, these were not hollow or created only for the play; these were borrowed from a real guest-chamber in the castle.

"Now, where was I?" Susan asked Peter, blinking absently.

"Nowhere," said Peter. "We are absolutely nowhere."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

But Peter had walked off without being dismissed and was suddenly engaged in some incredibly important conversation with a talking jackrabbit.

"Humph!" Susan pursed her lips, frustrated.

The centaurs began work on setting up the bedposts and the disappointed young queen numbly watched them, feeling oddly sick to her stomach. Why Peter ceasing to like her any longer should make her feel that way, she would not consider, but it made her weary and ill-tempered.

An intense moan of serious pain came from the corner the twins had been playing with those fake swords in, and Susan turned to see Edmund clutching his head and Lucy grasping his arm. She appeared to be nudging him towards the door while he, although mostly compliant, fought her a little, struggling to croak out something in twin-speak despite the fact that it sounded as if every heavily-forced word made him weak and breathless.

Whatever her twin had said to her must have given Lucy a shock, for she let go of him immediately as comprehension dawned. And Edmund, for his part, once freed, ran over with alarming speed and knocked Peter flat down, almost two whole feet from where he had been standing.

Peter barely had time to let out an "Oof!" of surprise. What was happening? Had Edmund really just charged and _tackled_ him?

"Ed!" Susan started.

A centaur lost grip of a bedpost and it fell to the floor with a great _boom_!

Peter's eyes widened. If he had been standing where he was before Edmund knocked him down, he would have been crushed by that fallen bedpost.

But the thing hadn't even begun to so much as _wobble_ when Edmund tackled him. How could the young Narnian prince possibly have known that was going to happen?

Standing up, Edmund's eyes were half-closed and he put a hand to his forehead.

Lucy came running, pulling him away again, but in the moment her fingers closed round her brother's wrist to tug him out the door, his eyes widened-only for a passing second-and Peter saw that they weren't brown.

They were green again.

"Wait," Peter tried hoarsely, but the twins had already fled.

Tumnus and Susan, Peter a short ways behind them in the corridor, reached the nursery just as Lucy had locked the door, shutting herself and Edmund up inside.

Whimpering, moaning, and out-right agonized _crying_ could be heard from behind the bolted door, and Susan, frantic to help, pounded her fists urgently upon the wood. "Lucy, open up! What is the meaning of this?"

No reply.

"Sister? Please..."

Nothing.

Tumnus shook his head. "We would do best to leave them be for now."

"But, Master Tumnus, surely-" Susan protested.

"They will come out on their own," said the faun. "But I doubt they will do so if they think there is a royal mob waiting for them with worry and demands for explanations we know they can't provide."

"Peter, _you_ try," Susan pleaded, rushing down the corridor and closing the sparse gap between their standing places. "I hear crying. One of them must be hurt or something. And I know Lucy listens to you."

"I don't think there's anything I can do." Peter knew Lucy loved him, but also that nothing in the world would ever equal the love she held for her twin, nor challenge to compromise it in any way, shape, or form. If it was Edmund's secret, and not hers, she would guard it with her life. Anything of her own, she might willingly give to a friend, especially one she highly valued, but nothing of her brother's was up for grabs. She would become all mum; Peter knew that. So he knew nothing he could say would make her open that door.

"I know you're angry with me," Susan faltered, "but don't take it out on the twins." She forced herself to be strong, unwilling to let tears spring up into her eyes. She wanted, very badly, to add, in a low whisper, "They're all I've got," but she held back. A queen couldn't afford to think like that: to think of her half-blood siblings being all she had to love and cling to, when, really, a good ruler was supposed to feel that way about their country and kingdom and subjects.

"I'm not," assured Peter. "Really."

She swallowed hard, gave him one sharp look, and ran off.

While it didn't seem possible, after that strange episode, Edmund became even _more_ reclusive-and elusive-than usual. He stopped coming to meals, always having something brought to him, and most of the time when Peter saw Lucy hanging about, it was either only by herself or else with just Maya for company.

No longer were the twins playing together behind curtains and in servant quarters and in the courtyard a common sight. Instead, Edmund could only be glimpsed occasionally looking out of the window of an empty-not even particularly _nice_ (there was a small leak, and no carpet or rugs, which was why no one ever really lived in it)-tower room he had inexplicably moved all of his belongings into. With the exception of the wolves, only Lucy, when she wanted to see him after a lonely day of running about all of Cair Paravel by herself, gained admittance. And the rest of the time, it was the young Narnian prince up there alone with his Maugrim. If they talked, boy and wolf, the walls were thick, and nobody heard anything. If he _did _anything besides _sit_ there blankly, no one heard so much as a creaky floorboard being tread down on, either.

Then, one morning, Edmund's footsteps were heard on the stairs. He had come out.

He sat at his old place for breakfast, as if nothing had happened, but there were tell-tale signs that things were different. For one, his eyes (brown again) had dark circles under them, as if he hadn't slept a solid eight hours in all the time he'd been in self-imposed seclusion. For another, he seemed almost dangerously angry with Peter. Nobody really knew _why_, but it was undeniable. The Narnian prince could hardly stand even to look at him; his eyes darkened with resentment and cold, hard fury whenever Peter tried to say more than two words to him.

Lucy, for the most part, was her old self, except, every once in a while, her steady cheerfulness would leave her without warning and, sad-eyed, she would look out at nothing, lost in thought, her expression much too old and grave for a child of her age. She was happy Edmund had come out of the tower room, but also anxious. Yet she never said why.

Peter tried to draw her out, get her to tell him what the matter was, but it wasn't much use. As it concerned _Edmund_, nothing could make her talk.

Once, though, while sitting with Peter outside on the shoreline, Maya curled up beside her, resting her head and front paws in her lap, she slipped up and said, in a rushed, soft sort of voice, "You wouldn't hurt Maugrim, would you, Peter?" Lucy's expression was earnest. "You'd _never_. Right?"

"No, of course not." Peter was shocked. Where was this coming from?

A little sigh of relief came from her. "I told Edmund he had to be wrong," she said. "I told him it must have been somebody else, or a trick or something. I knew you would never, Peter, I _knew_."

"Lucy, what are you talking about?"

"N-nothing." She bit onto her lower lip.

"Why would you-I mean, Edmund-think I would hurt Maugrim?"

Lucy ran her fingers through Maya's fur. "He's wrong. I told him."

"But no one's done anything to Maugrim at all." He had seen the wolf that morning; the creature was healthy as a horse.

She didn't respond.

"Lucy, what's going on?" Peter wanted so badly to help her.

She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly.

He waited several minutes, but she didn't say anything. "Lu?"

"He thinks you're going to kill Maugrim," Lucy finally murmured.

"What? Why does he think that?"

"He just does," she said, a mite too quickly, her eyes widening, as if in fear of betraying something she didn't dare tell him about.

"Well, I _wouldn't_," said Peter vehemently. "I wouldn't kill anybody!" (Well, that wasn't _strictly_ true; sometimes he fantasized about shoving Prince Rabadash into an oven like the witch from Hansel and Gretel.)

"I know." Lucy slipped her hand into his and clung to it. "I know."

But there was one thing Lucy _didn't_ know; something that no one at Cair Paravel possibly could have known. The very next afternoon, both wolves would be served poisoned and drugged meat.

Naturally, the castle's cook and butcher had nothing to do with this. It was Rabadash. He had meant what he said, about getting even with Edmund for humiliating him in a fight and forcing him to confess to cutting off Princess Lucy's hair. Taking it out on the wolves seemed, in his deranged mind, like a ideal way of evening the score; Maugrim had bitten him, so he needed to be punished as well. And as nobody at Cair-even those not particularly fond of Maya and Maugrim on account of their heritage-would have dreamed of hurting the protected companions of the royal twins, it was all too easy for Rabadash to sneak in undetected and switch the meat. Everything was unguarded, and the Calormene prince thought it amusing. This was going to be great fun, seeing the barbarian prince's face when his vile pet demon-wolf went mad from the strong drugs and his sister's wolf went and dropped dead from her poisoned portion.

Peter, meanwhile, was down in the secret old treasure chamber where Rhindon was kept. He hadn't touched the sword since the first time Susan had taken him down there, but there was no harm in _looking_. Quite a few times he had come down here, just to think.

There was so much he wanted to understand but couldn't. Somehow, the puzzle pieces all seemed a little less oppressive when he was down there, among the old things, and-most importantly-the greatsword on its pedestal. Only the king of Narnia was allowed to hold it. Well, he was no king, yet there was no denying how right it had felt in his hands the one time he'd impertinently held it, fitting the inside of his hand to the hilt. Maybe in another world-another life-he and that sword had a different history-a richer, more involved one. It wasn't impossible, and it _would_ explain a lot. Goodness knew there were most likely enough alternative universes for that to be the case in at least one of them.

In this one, though, Peter was almost fearful of Rhindon's future.

Susan couldn't have the sword, being a queen and not a king. And despite the fact that Rabadash, by all rights, should never lay a finger on it, Peter was smart enough to suspect an eventual scenario in which the Calormene prince possessed both the sword and the kingdom, by usurping, using a marriage to Susan as his claim to power.

The thought made him shudder.

Envisioning a not-so-distant, nor unlikely, future where Rabadash ended up with Susan, Narnia, _and _Rhindon was enough to make Peter's skin crawl and all the hairs on his arms stand up on end.

Would Susan ever show her betrothed this room? Or, he wondered, would she keep it a secret from him? Did she truly feel some need to protect the sword-the Narnian king's heritage-even when duties conflicted and collided?

He was snapped out of his thoughts when he suddenly heard screaming from upstairs.

The chamber echoed; the frantic shouting and running-even fainting-did not escape Peter's ears. The words were not all clear, yet the emotion of pure fear was impossible to miss. There was something loose in the castle. It had been chasing Queen Susan, only the servants that tried to protect her had somehow or other lost sight of her. They hadn't the foggiest where she was; simply that she was still in danger and, unless they found her, they could do nothing about it.

A voice that was not his own, but by some magic was in his head nonetheless-a deep, rich, golden voice, low, almost a purr-said, _Peter, it is your calling_.

And all at once, Peter knew what he was meant to do and that it would not be easy. He still didn't understand what was happening, nor did he have any idea what sort of beast he would have to fight or what the outcome would be, but he knew, sure as he knew his own name and the colour of his mother's eyes, what he was expected to do right then.

He grabbed Rhindon, threw it under the cloak he was wearing (it sometimes got a little drafty beyond the secret door) and ran hard.

Later, when it was asked-and pondered over-how Peter knew to go to the apple orchard, whereas all the servants were running round like chickens without heads trying to locate their queen, an answer was never found.

It was assumed, in the end, that, perhaps, the rich golden voice had told him _that_, too.

Regardless, he made it there, sweeping his cloak aside and brandishing Rhindon shamelessly, just as Susan was making a dash for a tree and swinging herself up onto the lowest branch.

She was followed by a great gray beast. A wolf.

Peter swallowed hard as he recognized him.

It was _Maugrim_.

_No... _Peter quivered, his shaking hands gripping the sword harder still, lest Rhindon should slip from his now-sweating palms.

This wasn't right. Maugrim shouldn't be attacking Susan. Aside from the fact that he was her brother's wolf, he was also a talking Narnian beast; no beast in his right mind would dare turn on the queen of Narnia.

But, _oh_! Maugrim was _not _in his right mind. His eyes were wild and his expression uncharacteristically dismal and vicious. His fangs were flecked with foam. There was nothing in him left of the Narnian prince's companion; the shell-the _body_-of Maugrim remained, but the sarcastic yet reasonable being that had been Prince Edmund's friend was not in there.

Or, if he _was_ somewhere in there, he was forced so far back that there was no way of retrieving him-no way of saving him.

All the same, Peter _did _try. He tried to talk to the growling wolf, and it even replied a couple of times. But the voice was all wrong; it was the voice of a lunatic. Maugrim ranted some wild nonsense about Peter thinking he was a king and that he was going to die like a dog.

"Please," Peter said, his lips trembling. "I don't want to hurt you."

"That's not it," growled Maugrim, his voice painfully raspy, more foam dripping from his teeth. "We both know you haven't got it in you."

Susan whimpered on her tree branch. "Peter, be careful, he jumps..." There were few beasts the young queen knew of that jumped better-higher-than Maugrim could.

The moment of truth was coming. Peter had a choice to make. He could spare Maugrim, but then the wolf would likely kill both himself and Susan in a mad rage. It would be much too easy for the wolf to jump up and grab Susan's currently dangling foot or skirts and pull her down. Susan needed Peter to choose to save _her._ And, really, there wasn't much choice to _make_. Yes, he had sworn to Lucy he would not hurt Maugrim, but he had not known this would happen.

_I will be brave_. Peter forced back a shudder. _I can do this_.

Peter did not _feel_ very brave; he felt like he was going to take sick and vomit in the grass. Still, that did not change what needed to be done.

Maugrim sprang.

Peter lunged, sword held out.

The next few moments were all sweat and heat and fur, and something that felt like closed teeth knocking against Peter's forehead. Then he was drawing the sword from the dead wolf's chest. There were tears in his own eyes, not all of them from fear. He was sorry for Maugrim. Whatever had happened, however the wolf had gone insane, it couldn't have been the creature's own fault.

"It's all right, Su," Peter said, looking up. "You can come down now."

Susan, in a state of shock, shook her head.

"He's dead, Susan." Peter closed his eyes. "He can't hurt you."

Part of her had been aching to hear that, to be reassured Maugrim would not spring back up and kill her the moment her foot touched the ground, and deep down she'd known it even before Peter said anything, but there was a whole other part of her that wanted Maugrim to be alive. She had been uneasy about the wolves, perhaps, but she realized now that she'd loved them; loved them because her siblings loved them, and loved them for their own merits as well. They were-in their own odd way-part of her stability and she felt pretty shaky without both of them. She didn't even know where Maya was; if she was safe, or if she'd gone mad, too...

After a bit, she finally came down from the tree and stumbled over to Peter.

"Shh..." he whispered gently. "It's over."

And that was when she realized she was sobbing.

His arms were open, and she flung herself into them. They clung to each other like survivors of a ghastly shipwreck or devastating hurricane. He smoothed her hair; she linked her arms round the back of his neck.

Their foreheads touched. Then his lips touched her forehead. There was comfort in it, and Susan, being an affectionate person in her shaken core, returned the gesture by kissing one of his cheeks.

Something inside of Peter clicked. He didn't _think_ about what he was doing; he simply did it: he drew his face down to hers and kissed her full on the mouth.

They broke apart, Susan gone quite pale with surprise and Peter going the opposite way entirely and blushing.

Although they fancied themselves unseen, one person did see them; he simply thought nothing of it. The romantic kiss that had come as a great shock to the both of them didn't surprise Edmund in the least, for he had-in his own, 'really couldn't care less', kind of way-suspected something of the sort for a while. Besides, his dead friend commanded his full attention.

For, yes, there was Maugrim.

And he was dead; killed by Peter, just like he had known he would be.

Peter noticed him. "Edmund, I'm sorry. There was nothing I could do. He would have killed Susan if I hadn't."

But there are no words, no clean-cut explanation, that can heal a broken bond such as Edmund had shared with Maugrim. Death is shattering in all its forms, honourable or dishonourable. In the same way it wouldn't matter to a person in Peter's world that someone they loved had been killed by another in self-defense, the same way that could never make them stop loving the deceased and wishing they could have them back, so was Edmund's understandable reaction. In his eyes, Peter was a murderer. He'd killed Maugrim. He almost wished he hadn't saved him from the falling bedpost.

He hated him, he decided. Perhaps, in a way, he had _always_ hated him. Nothing Peter had done had been any good. Things had been fine before he came in and tried to take over. Why did he have to make Lucy talk? Everything was easier when he and Lucy spoke only between themselves. Peter was slowly stealing away his twin, bringing Lucy out into the larger world that he (Edmund) would never fit into, and he already had-in one moment-taken away Maugrim.

And why should _he_ brandish Rhindon? Edmund knew about the king's greatsword, of course, and knew he could never wield it himself, since Susan was first-born and she was only a girl and wasn't allowed to have it either. But he still had much more right to it, he felt, than _Peter_ did. Peter wasn't royal at all!

He's not even really family, Edmund thought angrily, why shouldn't _I_ have the sword if someone's going to break tradition and use it anyway? I shouldn't have to play second-fiddle to a murderer! I deserve better! I deserve a chance!

Then something came back to him. A bad memory that had frightened him off of thinking similarly not so long before. It made his temples throb and his eyes well up with unshed tears. He gnashed his teeth together and shut his eyes, trying to erase it all.

He wanted Maugrim to come near to him, so he could feel the creature's fur and warm body close to his own, but he would never feel that again.

Even Lucy did not come to comfort him. She spent all the rest of that day (and that night) with Maya, who was very weak and might die. In her own grief, she did not have time for her twin's.

This was perhaps the first pain in their lives they had not shared equally. Edmund's wolf was never coming back; all hope was gone. Lucy's wasn't dead yet; she wanted to keep her alive-she had hope, however slim, to cling to. She could not fully enter into Edmund's suffering, and he couldn't truly understand her hopefulness. In his mind, she hadn't any right to be hopeful when he couldn't be.

Edmund had not felt this alone since Anvard.

And the ball of anger in his stomach tightened and hardened when he heard from Tumnus (who had come to bring him something to eat after he missed supper) that Peter was to be _knighted _for his 'bravery' the very next day.

In the morning, Edmund made a rash decision. He was going to get rid of the weapon that had killed his wolf.

Sneaking to where Rhindon had been put temporarily after Peter cleaned it, he took the sword and made his way to the shoreline.

Peter saw him, looking out of a window on that side of the castle.

He watched as Edmund grunted and flung the sword into the waves. Then the boy, obviously crying, threw rocks after it. He stormed off into the forest after that, and very little was seen of him for the next few hours.

Time was ticking, Peter was supposed to be going to the throne room to be dubbed a knight. However, he couldn't just leave Rhindon down there. It was an important part of Narnian heritage. Even Edmund would surely feel guilt over it being lost for ever when his anger subsided.

So he did the only thing he felt he decently could do. He went outside, dived into the water, and searched the seabed for the sword. Thankfully, despite the fact that Edmund had thrown it hard, Rhindon hadn't gone very far. It was too heavy to float out to the middle of the ocean and had sunk like a stone.

Arriving back at Cair dripping wet, Peter was met by Caspian and Doctor Cornelius. They had come looking for him and, seeing his state, knowing Edmund was absent from the throne room, understood what must have happened.

Hastily, they dried him off and got him changed into appropriate clothing for accepting his knighthood.

Still, Peter couldn't help but feel rather miserable when he was given the title of Sir Peter Wolf's-Bane.

Because, really, what could be a more constant guilt-trip than _that_?

**AN: Reviews welcome.**


	15. Lovesick

"Catalina, you can go on ahead," said Susan, letting her horse Snowflake fall behind so it was directly beside Peter's unicorn. "We shan't be long catching up."

The three of them were out riding in the forest, enjoying the scenery. Prince Rabadash had almost come along, too, which would have ruined the outing entirely (he was, obviously, not a pleasant person to go on long rides with on a humid afternoon), but he claimed the apple juice the Narnian servants had given him at breakfast had made him fiercely ill with a sore throat and diarrhea. Susan had only grunted that Cair Paravel had the best apples, fresh from the orchard, and they couldn't possibly have made him sick, fairly positive her betrothed was exaggerating-or even lying altogether-to get attention. He had whined about no one-not even his 'beautiful beloved'-keeping him company in his illness, but she had, in turn, only said that if he cared a fig about _her_ health, he would for pity's sake let her out to get some fresh air instead of demanding she stay inside with him. The Calormene prince never exactly gave his consent, not particularly caring if Susan fainted from stale air and dust (in his perception, that was what smelling salts and putting whip-marks on the backs of servants who weren't cleaning up the dust properly were for), but a faint gurgle (though really he'd only meant to clear his throat) was taken as such. Caspian and Tirian had lessons and thought it a mite too hot to venture out anyhow, and so the group had dwindled down only to Peter, Susan, and Catalina.

And Catalina was none too thrilled about her cousin-queen or no-sending her on ahead like that. Susan was only thirteen, what right had she to tell her when to ride beside her friends?

For Peter was_ her_ friend, too, wasn't he?

Or at least, she thought, he _might_ be, if Susan wouldn't do stupid things like sending me off as if I were younger than her and Peter instead of older, and a little child who needs to be diverted besides!

Although she fully intended to keep silent about the matter, Catalina found herself compelled to speak up when Susan, in rather a tiresome tone, asked her why she was so disagreeable later that day.

They were alone, sitting in one of Susan's private chambers, doing needlework, so there was no one to overhear their conversation. And Catalina had grown weary of keeping it in; today, being sent off while Susan lingered behind, speaking to Peter in a low voice, had been the final straw.

"I'm disagreeable," she said tersely, "because you _make _me so."

Genuinely astonished, Susan put her needlework down in her lap and blinked up at her companion. "Why, Catalina! How have I provoked you? I've done nothing wrong."

"You sent me on ahead today, when we went out riding with Peter."

"_That's_ what you're upset about?" Susan almost rolled her eyes. "For pity's sake, you goose! I meant nothing by it. Do you wish to know what Peter and I were talking about? Very little of importance; I'd gladly have told you all of it, you know, if you had only asked. Mostly it was about armour fittings-oh, and a bit about the twins. We're both worried about Edmund, he's not been right since Maugrim..." Here her voice trailed off. "Honestly, it was nothing worth getting upset about being left out of."

"The contents of the conversation," snorted Catalina, "were hardly the _point_."

Susan crinkled her forehead. "Then what is?"

"Did you never think for a moment that perhaps _I _wanted to spend time with Sir Peter today as well?" she snapped. "Not be sent on ahead so you might keep him company on your own."

"Catalina, you're being absurd." Susan gathered up her needlework once again, attending to it.

"Am I?" she demanded.

"Yes, very much so."

"You don't understand."

"You're right," Susan agreed-with _that_ much, at least. "I don't. I think you've gone round the bend, or else are painfully over-tired."

"I am neither," Catalina insisted, at the point where she could not be blandly insulted or misunderstood into backing down. "You covet your closest friends, Susan. It never occurs to you that they may have other companions that command their attention as much as a queen does."

"I do no such thing!" laughed Susan, giggling nervously at the ridiculousness of that statement. "You _are_ mad."

"You-" she began.

Susan held up her hand, letting the needlework fall back into her lap. "If I covet my friends, why don't you mope about Tumnus or your brother, or anybody else? You're sullen because I thoughtlessly sent you off. And that's not fair. You could have said something at the time."

"How could I?" Catalina exclaimed incredulously. "In _front _of Peter? Not to mention, seemingly disregard the queen's orders in front of a knight?"

"It's _Peter_," Susan said. "He wouldn't have been offended, or had any lower regard for me. Honestly, if you wished to spend more time speaking with him, then you might have said so to _him_, instead of going off without protest, stewing over nothing, and then blaming _me_."

"I think I've had enough needlework for one day," Catalina decided. She rose up and left the chamber.

Was it possible, Susan wondered, watching her cousin's retreating back in pure bafflement, that Catalina was beginning to have some kind of feelings-perhaps even _romantic_ feelings-for Peter?

The more she thought about it, the more likely she deemed it to be. After all, Catalina was only a couple of years older than Peter, and he was truly was a most decent fellow. She had been glad to bestow a knighthood on him, even under such tragic circumstances, the whole affair being on the heels of Maugrim's death. The wolf had been worthy of a better death, perhaps, but Peter was not unworthy of being rewarded for his brave deed. She knew it upset Edmund dreadfully, Peter being treated like a hero for killing one of the few friends he had, but there was no help for that. Anyone who, already knowing and liking Peter as it was, heard of what he'd done to earn being dubbed a knight in the court of Narnia surely couldn't resist admiring him all the more deeply. And _anyone_ definitely included Catalina.

It doesn't include _me_, though, Susan thought hurriedly, it _can't._

Only, she had felt something when he'd kissed her after saving her life. It couldn't be love, she thought, but it wasn't relief. She could not simply brush it off as _merely _that. No, she'd already been relieved, a feeling of safety washing over her in spite of her grief, well before he kissed her on the mouth. She'd felt relief the moment his arms opened up to let her in. He was only comforting her, she tried telling herself, and got carried away; and if she didn't think too much about it when she was around him, she could almost pretend it never happened, but, then, when it came up back into her mind again-whether she was alone with him or not-she felt almost _weak_.

If Catalina was in love with him, was it really so inconceivable that she-queen of Narnia or not-was, too?

Yes, yes, it _had _to be. Anything else, any other emotion, however innocent, was completely out of the question. She was betrothed. She was meant to marry Prince Rabadash. Surely, if she was going to fall in love with anyone, it should be _him_. It was _supposed_ to be him!

Susan gnawed uncomfortably on her lower lip. She did like-or at least _respect_-Rabadash, didn't she?

She had certainly liked his portrait the first time she saw it, at eight or nine years old. It felt like so long ago now; and her excitement at knowing she would one day marry such a dark and handsome prince felt childish. When she thought of him, how he'd been the day he fought with Edmund, and how he'd cut off Lucy's hair before that without so much as the slightest sign of remorse, she found it hard to make her old excitement peak the way she used to be able to force it to.

She could protect the twins from him, of that she still was convinced, ignorant of what her betrothed had done to Maugrim and Maya (the cook and butcher, and two of their best assistants, had already been charged, found innocent, and then let go), but could she protect herself? She wanted to believe he wouldn't hurt her; especially after they were married. She wanted to think that he would grow to love her so much he wouldn't say things to make her want to cry anymore; that, perhaps, he would even grow to like-or at least tolerate-those freckles on her nose she had tried and failed to get rid of (by wearing a hat with a veil outside and putting creams and lemon juice on the bridge of her nose before she went to sleep).

Except, what if he _didn't_?

If he couldn't love her, how could she love him?

Not that it mattered; she was pledged to him, there was no way out, even if she _did_ want one. She had been telling Peter the truth before, when she'd said she couldn't end her betrothal to Prince Rabadash, even after what he'd done.

The young queen's muddled mind grew even more confused and troubled due to something that happened that night after supper.

Prince Rabadash offered to escort her to her chambers, offering his arm for her to take, and she excepted, forcing herself not to so much as half-glance in Peter's direction. (If she _had _glanced, she might have seen he was scowling at the sight of her arm linked with that of the Calormene prince, and wondered once again if it were possible that the two of them were...)

"You are thirteen now, are you not?" Rabadash asked as they approached the doors to part of her royal quarters.

She had been for a while-a quite a good while, in fact, so this was not news in the least and she was rather surprised he spoke as causally about it as if that very day were her birthday-but she said nothing, simply nodding.

"We will be married in less than two years," he noted.

Susan found herself caught with the most impertinent desire to grimace. She held back, never letting on how dear it cost her. She would learn to love him...she _would_...she would _have_ to. And two years, give or take, was a long enough time; he could become more of a gentleman in the duration.

"I shall give you a kiss, O delight of my eyes, to hold us both until that glorious day," he announced, probably thinking himself to be making the most beautiful love speech of all time, when, in actuality, he sounded more like a pompous ventriloquist's puppet on a bad day.

He might have _asked _me, Susan thought irksomely, if I wanted a kiss. Or even merely if it was all right if he kissed me. He just assumes I will let him.

To some extent, though, his assuming was not entirely vain. Susan did let him after all, without a word of protest.

She found, rather brokenly, that it was more upsetting than endearing. He clung to her for longer than she liked, and he smelled rather funny up close. Someone really ought to have suggested to him that he take it a bit easier on the spice-filled flowery perfume.

The worst part for Susan was the slow smile on his face after he pulled away from her; the smile that meant he had enjoyed it. She hadn't enjoyed it at all. Looking at him, all she could make herself feel was disgust. Peter's kiss hadn't felt a bit like that; it hadn't made her feel jolly nearly as if she _never_ wanted to feel anyone's lips smashed against her own ever again so long as she lived, the way Rabadash's had.

Kissing her prince wasn't supposed to be vile, except it _was_.

To distract herself, for the next few days Susan threw herself whole-heartedly into the production of _Sleeping Beauty_. Only, in the end, that seemed to do not much else aside from getting her into _more_ trouble.

She sewed costumes, she re-hung drapes that had fallen, she asked for more flowers (Lord Asher brought them this time, instead of Peter) to replace the dead and dying ones, and she learned all the lines so well that if one of the cast spoke even one syllable less than was in the script, she would have known immediately, but still, whenever she paused for thought of anything else, or else simply to catch her breath, Peter returned to her mind.

He was continuously involved in _Sleeping Beauty_, too, even though he was no longer in charge of the flowers, so she had plenty of opportunity to glimpse him-even _talk_ to him-every so often, in-between rehearsals and costume fittings. One thing that made her stupidly happy was how he had gotten into this habit of smiling broadly every time she came into view, like he was genuinely glad to see her. Of course there was no reason he _shouldn't_ be (glad, that is), they were friends, after all, but it still made her feel warm all over, as if someone had given her a piping hot silver mug of tea on a bitterly cold day.

One less than brilliant afternoon when the skies were a mite unseasonably gray and overcast, Susan had Trumpkin and Adeline in for a brief rehearsal.

They were going over only one scene: the ending-closing-scene. After it was over, they were all to be dismissed to whatever else it was they were doing that day in court. Susan herself had a meeting with her advisers and an audience with a lordling from the Lantern Waste who claimed a talking mole was ruining his potatoes and refused to make amends or pay for the damage. But the scene would not be got right; not to the queen's satisfaction. The last scene was her favorite, and she wouldn't stand to see it ill-preformed.

The scene takes place after the king's son has awakened the slumbering princess with a kiss; he takes her hands in his and declares that she is the most beautiful woman he's ever seen in his whole life, then laughingly adds that she is, however, dressed in the style of clothing his great, great grandmother wore in old portraits, and the princess replies that she will soon learn to live in-and dress for-the new world to which she has awakened.

Trumpkin, although good at the role of the king's son in other respects, despite his size, sounded too gruff in his muttered mention that the princess was dressed like his great, great grandmother.

No girl, Susan thought, absently smoothing a wrinkle in the skirt of her orange-and-red gown of velvet and silk, would take a statement said in such a brusque tone so well as the princess in _Sleeping Beauty_ does. It simply won't do; he must learn to say it a bit more tenderly, at least.

"Peter," she said suddenly, as he was the only other person there aside from Trumpkin and Adeline. "Would you come here and read the lines with me? I want to show them how it's supposed to be done."

"All right." He had been leaning slightly with his back against the wall, standing up straight when she called him over.

"Take my hands in yours," Susan instructed, stiffly holding out her hands.

He did so.

She felt her hands relax in his immediately and involuntarily.

"You are," he began to recite, looking up from her hands in his own to her face, meeting her eyes and inhaling deeply, "the most beautiful woman I have ever beheld." He exhaled; his face felt warm; deep down, some part of him must have known he wasn't _only_ saying a line from a play. "But you dress in the clothing worn by my great, great grandmother, a hundred years or more hence."

Susan swallowed hard. In her place, a less composed girl would have forgotten her lines entirely and gazed dumbly at Peter, but she persevered. Giving a little laugh, she sighed 'happily', "I will soon learn the fashions of today: the garments worn on the backs of modern men and women in this new world I have been fortunate enough to wake in upon exile from my long curse." She looked down at her feet, then back up into Peter's blue eyes. "I _have_ been waiting for you for ever so long, you know."

"I know," he whispered.

And that was the last line in the play. All that was left was the king's son lifting the hands of the princess up a little higher and pulling her three or four steps closer to him; then they were meant to stand still as statues, hands remaining clasped, as the curtain descended.

However, that wasn't exactly what happened between Peter and Susan at the rehearsal.

Instead, Susan, coming closer to him, stretched upwards, and kissed him the same way he had kissed her in the orchard. He returned the gesture, perhaps a bit _too_ willingly.

Lady Adeline furrowed her brow and looked to her husband, whispering in a confused voice, "Are _we_ supposed to do that on stage, as well?" She didn't remember any kissing, except for the one kiss that woke the sleeping princess, in the stage-play.

Trumpkin grinned at her. "I like this play," he decided.

The door opened and Tumnus trotted in carrying a tea-tray. _Goodness gracious me_! He almost dropped the tea-tray and all its contents when he saw what Peter and Susan were doing.

Breaking away from him, Susan felt her breath catch in her throat just as soon as it returned, looking into Peter's face. For now, of course, she realized what she had just been doing.

_No_, she thought, _this can't be happening_.

Swallowing a sob, the young queen let go of Peter's hands and fled the chamber.

"Susan, wait!" Peter called after her. It wasn't the queen betrothed to somebody else he was falling for; it was just _Susan_-sweet, caring, uppity yet gentle, maddeningly well organized Susan. Maybe Rabadash _did _deserve to marry a queen or noblewoman simply because he was-however dreadful-royalty by blood, but that didn't mean he deserved _Susan_.

But Susan didn't wait, not even for a moment.

Tumnus found her, a few minutes later, in her bed-chamber, sitting on her canopied bed, weeping into the crook of her arm.

"Your Majesty..."

She slumped down and rolled over, curling up in a fetal position. "Leave me."

"You know," said Tumnus softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed, his hooves dangling a half-foot off the ground due to the height of the mattress, "there was a high-ranking lady of the court once, right here at Cair Paravel, in my grandfather's time, who fell in love with a boy who mucked out the stables; a knight isn't _nearly_ as bad."

"Well, _she_ probably wasn't promised to someone else," Susan said, sitting up again. "And I'm _not _in love with him." Her face was red and blotchy.

"Actually, she _was_ betrothed," Tumnus told her, "to a prince from Archenland."

Suddenly the faun's story went from being a pointless fairytale to a point of interest. "Really?"

"Oh, yes," said Tumnus. "By all accounts, he was a funny-looking chap."

"The prince?" Susan asked, surprised, her tears slowing. Usually fair-headed Archenlander men were quite handsome, in a light milky-complexioned kind of way.

"No, not the prince, I was referring to the boy from the stables," Tumnus explained. "My guess is the prince was good-looking enough."

"She must have really loved the boy for _himself_, then," noted Susan admiringly. "Not anything else."

"Yes, I suppose she did."

"How did she get out of her betrothal?" the young queen heard herself blurt out.

"Well, she didn't, he died falling from a horse."

"The boy from the stables?"

He shook his head. "No, no, the prince."

"Oh, I see. So, did she and the stable-boy get married?"

"No, he was sent away from court for a while."

That was a terrible shame. "Didn't they ever see each other again?"

Tumnus winced and shifted uncomfortably. "Well, now, yes, but I don't think you want to hear _that _part of the story."

"No, no," Susan insisted. "I _do_. Tell me."

"By the time she saw him again, the lady had...well, _changed_."

"Changed how?"

"She had gone a bit mad, climbing for power. And she'd even usurped her way onto the Narnian throne for a number of months..."

Susan's eyes widened. "And?"

"Her stable-boy sided _against_ her rule," Tumnus said dismally. "She didn't like that."

"But she wouldn't hurt him, would she?"

"He was dragged before her, and she ordered a beheading."

"A _beheading_?" cried Susan, aghast. How was _this_ story supposed to bring her comfort? It was _awful_! She let her head fall back down, sinking deeply into her pillows as another round of sobs escaped from her throat.

"Oh, he didn't die," Tumnus said hastily, reaching out and touching her arm.

"He didn't?" she asked in a small voice, lifting up her head.

"Well, no, he killed _her_ first." The faun was beginning to wish he'd thought of a better story.

Susan's lower lip quivered. "How?"

"Escaped from the dungeon on her wedding night, locked the bridegroom in a wardrobe, and strangled her with her own braids, I think," Tumnus said, in rather a rush, knowing Susan would not think much of _that_ part of the story. "They say he cried the entire time. But he was awarded a Narnian medallion of honour for saving the kingdom."

"How could they reward him for _killing _her?" Susan was outraged.

"You rewarded Peter for killing Maugrim." Tumnus shrugged his bare shoulders sadly.

"Will no one let me forget Maugrim?" Susan wailed. "It wasn't... I never wanted... He was gone _mad_; it wasn't really _him _anymore. Edmund doesn't understand, but that's how it was! Peter saved my life."

Tumnus nodded. "Exactly. It was a matter of the lady's (the false queen's) life, or the lives of others. Most folks believe he did the right thing. She had gone mad. If she had still been herself, probably he wouldn't have been able to make himself kill her."

"Oh, but this is all nonsense!" Susan pulled herself together forcibly and got off the bed. "I don't want Peter beheaded, and I've no wish whatever to be strangled with my own hair. And none of that horrid story is relevant in the least!"

"It's relevant in that you're not the first to break your own heart."

"Oh, Master Tumnus!" she sighed, looking at her good friend and adviser imploringly. "I _do_ love him, I can't keep lying." She started for the doors that led out into the corridor. "And, before anything else can be decided, I need to tell Peter the truth, and apologize for running out on him like that."

"As your adviser," he said, "I know I'm meant to remind you of the political importance of your betrothal to Prince Rabadash."

Susan felt her face drain of colour, pausing in the doorway.

"But as your friend, your Majesty," finished Tumnus, giving her a kindly half-smile, "I can pretend I know nothing of this."

She ran back to him, caught his hands in hers, squeezed them lightly, and said, "Oh, thank you, Master Tumnus, dear Master Tumnus!" Then she went back to the door and vanished into the corridor.

"Poor child," murmured the faun.

When Susan finally located Peter, it felt to her like ages had ticked by since she'd run from him at the rehearsal (really, it was only about a half-hour at best, and it would have been closer to twenty-five minutes if the corridor she found him in had been perhaps two lengths or so shorter).

"Peter, I must speak with you."

"There you are!" He noticed how red her eyes were, knowing she must have been crying. "Are you all right? I've been worried about you."

"Peter, about what happened," she began.

"I'm sorry," he blurted. "I should never have-"

"No, it was me, and there's more," she insisted. "So much more." How could she tell him this, knowing there was no hope, that it was all madness? "Peter, I-"

"Your Majesty!" One of her advisers (Lord Peridan's father, as a matter of fact) materialized behind her.

Susan willed herself not to scream (or worse, stamp her foot). "Not now."

"But your Majesty-"

"Whatever it is can _wait_," she tried.

"I'm afraid it can't, your Majesty."

Giving up, she turned around, taking a sharp breath in through the nose. "Yes? What is it?"

"It's Prince Edmund," he said gravely. "We believe he's run away."

**AN: Please review.**


	16. Refinding Joy

"We have several important matters to discuss," began one of Susan's advisers grimly.

Susan sat on her throne, her bottom teetering on the very edge. She didn't _want_ to be sitting; she wanted to leap up at once.

Something was very, very wrong, and she didn't wish to sit here and let it keep happening. She had to find Edmund! She just _had _to! And yet they would keep her here, in calm discussion, with no chance of escape till all was planned out properly. Although it was true that, in her orderly mind, she knew this was the right way to go about matters, and in any other kind of situation she herself would have been the one to instigate such a procedure, she was too worried to live up to her sensible nature in full at the moment.

It was not that Edmund had run away that frightened her; it was that he had run away and _left Lucy behind_. That wasn't a bit like him. Countless times he had taken off, only to come back late to scoldings, but rarely-if ever-had he done so without his twin. And never, that the young queen could recall, without Maugrim. With his wolf now dead, she shuddered to think what might have happened to him.

And, oh, poor, poor Lucy! The child was dazed at her twin's sudden departure. She claimed, when Peter had pulled her aside and asked her, to know nothing of it, and began crying, not because she was holding something back, but because she was honesty afraid. Edmund hadn't even said goodbye to her. In her eyes, it was as if she'd woken up one morning to see that one of her limbs had been cut off while she slept. Perhaps, in a way, it was even worse than when he was taken to Anvard; for there is quite a difference between having something you love and feel unable to live without stolen away and having it abandon you without so much as a glimmer of warning. Nothing felt right, in the wake of this disaster. It was as if Lucy, suddenly and utterly unexpectedly, found herself dying of thirst, ran to find a stream, swallowed down water like there was no tomorrow on the horizon, only to find that, alas, the water tasted _dry_.

There was nothing Susan wanted to be doing more than going out to look for him at once. All her old beliefs that Lucy was more trainable without Edmund's interfering and encouraging her to behave like a half-wild chit seemed stupid now. She didn't believe he had been kidnapped, or gone away unwillingly. For who could-or _would_-have taken him? But surely he was not in his right mind; he might do something rash or dreadful. Susan of course knew by then about his throwing Rhindon into the water and Peter having to go and retrieve it.

Willing herself to be calm, Susan felt her eyes shift over to Prince Rabadash, wondering what exactly he thought he was doing here. He wasn't meant to be sitting in with her advisers as if he were king. But, yet, there he was, sitting in as if it concerned him; not as if he were worried for Edmund (why _would _he be, after all? he hated him), simply as if nothing in Narnia ought to be done that he was not aware of.

She wanted to tell her advisers to dismiss him, but she didn't. There was no time for quarreling. Things were likely to move faster if she didn't stop the flow of propriety and formality to get rid of an irksome presence.

Besides, soon she would be out looking for her brother, and she knew perfectly well the prince of Calormen wouldn't care to come along on _that_ excursion.

"Our first matter of business," the adviser continued, "is to do something about that wolf."

"Wolf?" echoed Susan, incredulous. No, that wasn't the first 'matter of business'! Their first issue was that Edmund, her half-brother, prince of Narnia, was _missing_, most likely a runaway! What was _wrong_ with everyone? Maugrim was _dead_, so there was nothing to be done _about _him.

"The living one, of course," said the adviser. "Obviously keeping the wolves here-letting them live as long as they did-was a grave mistake. Before his death, and before he attacked you, Maugrim proved dangerous."

"That is most certainly correct, your lordship," said Rabadash, rising from his seat. "He sunk his deadly teeth into my leg."

"You were going to hurt Prince Edmund," said Tumnus, cutting in tersely; "I would have bitten you, too."

Lord Peridan's father cracked a light smile of agreement, but the rest of Susan's advisers remained stony-faced.

"I know," the first adviser pressed on, "that Princess Lucy is trying to nurse the remaining wolf back to health, but we members of the counsel think it wiser that the beast not be permitted to get well again; for it will surely turn on the child sooner or later. We could get her another pony to placate her, or a dog."

Susan was appalled. "Have you all lost your senses? Maya didn't do anything. It was Maugrim, and he died for it. And if you think my sister's heart is cold enough to be amused with a frivolous pony while her long-time wolf companion is cruelly dispatched, not to mention her twin brother is missing...! And, while we're on the subject, that's what I was led to believe this meeting was regarding: _Edmund_."

"As was I," Tumnus backed her up. "No one said a word to me about Maya's safety being challenged."

"_Her_ safety?" shrilled Rabadash. "By Tash, it's a vicious wolf!"

"Maya is not vicious!" Susan insisted. "She's never hurt anyone-and she never _will_!"

Rabadash snorted contemptuously.

Susan utterly despised him.

"My queen, when his royal highness Prince Rabadash first suggested that the other wolf was a threat as well, I, too, was hesitant, but after Edmund's disappearance, knowing neither wolf has had an effect on the twins for the better, I think he may have the right of it," the adviser said.

So it was Rabadash himself who had put this in the heads of her counsel, seemingly turning the majority against poor Maya. _I hate you_, Susan thought, glaring at her betrothed.

Her advisers didn't need Rabadash to come to a bad conclusion and try to bully her into submission (supposedly for her own good) every now and again (it was some of them who had been against Edmund and Lucy as infants and given orders to the swordsmen she'd protected them from, after all), but some spoiled foreign prince planting ideas in their heads certainly didn't help things run more peaceably.

Was this what it would be like all the time if-no, sadly, _when_-they wed? Her own husband pitted against everything she cared about, cozying up to-or alternatively scorning-her advisers whenever it benefited his personal vendetta?

"The prince is bitter," Tumnus said darkly, "because of his own pride. There is no need to take it out on an innocent animal; a _talking _animal, no less."

"It is a matter of royal security," was the protest.

Rabadash smirked, his expression very smug.

"No, please," Susan begged, "don't try to pass this ruling."

"It must be done," said an adviser who had not spoken up until that moment.

"I am the high queen!" she cried. "I will not let you do this."

"In the state of an emergency," Rabadash interjected coolly, "your laws distinctly decree that an underage queen may, under certain dire circumstances, have her ruling on a matter overturned if the counsel should have the signature and approval of another member of the royal class in some way close to the queen and concerned only with her best interests and that of her country."

Susan's head spun. _What_ had he just said?

"When did _you_ start being so precious fond of our laws?" demanded Tumnus, ignoring the looks the other advisers gave him at his upstart.

"And what has that nonsense to do with anything?" Susan put in.

"Only that I have the documents right here, my signature already on them." Rabadash held up some papers.

"Have you lost your mind?" gasped Tumnus, unable to restrain himself.

"Lion's alive! What in the world would make you think you could simply-" Susan began.

"O delight of my eyes, who else of royal descent would be closer to you, or care more about your welfare than your own betrothed?" He had her cornered, and he knew it.

Lord Peridan's father spoke up. "How can we allow a Calormene to overturn the word of our own Narnian queen? It's as good as treason."

Aslan bless you, Susan thought, always having liked him. Perhaps the others would see sense now that Tumnus was not the only one speaking rightly.

"Well, now, that's right," the first adviser said slowly, his voice hesitant. "Rabadash isn't Narnian and-"

"Am I to be discriminated against, by slights and the breaking of your own laws, for the poor reason of my race?" Rabadash's eyebrows went up. "If this is how I am to be treated, I shall bring the matter up with my father, the great Tisroc. We will see what _he_ thinks of Narnia being less than amiable to me, even in light of a marriage treaty."

"We can't allow him to complain to his father," whispered an adviser, a bit too loudly.

"I say _let_ him." Tumnus folded his arms across his chest. "He must be bluffing. I doubt the Tisroc would consider what we're doing here today as anything worthy of offense or open warfare."

"I can _make_ him consider it," simpered Rabadash, holding out the papers again in a curt manner.

The first adviser picked up a quill and dipped it in ink.

Susan's eyes widened. "I forbid you to sign that!"

"It is only for your own good, your Majesty. You're too close to the situation this time. The wolf is a friend of your own half-sibling; I know how hard it must be to see the matter objectively."

"He's not objective!" Susan snapped, pointing angrily at Rabadash. "He was _bitten._"

"Of course I'm objective, my lovely one," crooned Rabadash. "Surely you must know I would lay down my life for you. This must be done to _protect_ you and your family. Imagine if you found your lost brother, brought him back here, only for him to be torn to shreds by that wolf because you let it alive; I am certain you should not like that."

"Little you'd care," Tumnus pointed out. "You would have killed Prince Edmund yourself. I think we've established that much."

Rabadash pulled what he probably thought was an expression of total innocence but really only looked more like he'd taken a bite of a lemon and was trying his hardest not to pucker. "That is not true. The fight was quite harmless; sparring, really."

"Queen Susan," said Tumnus, looking at her very intensely all of a sudden. "You saw how he was fighting your brother."

"Yes, I-" she started, and stopped.

Rabadash was glaring at her now; she wondered how she could have failed to notice how much he frightened her. Yes, as of late, he invoked hatred in her, but also fear. If she tried to re-open the case of how badly he'd treated Edmund, what would he do in retaliation? He was already showing his ability to take out his anger in the wrong places. Already he was going to have poor Maya killed, if she couldn't stop him; if her advisers proved unwilling to listen to her this time. What-or whom-would he go for next if she angered him? Lucy? Peter? Tumnus? Her heart suddenly pounded like a hammer. Surely, one dead wolf, if it would calm her prince's temper, was better than Lucy or someone else close to her suffering repeatedly for her own hardheadedness. And poor Maya was suffering a great deal from being poisoned, leaving no guarantee she would truly recover; it might be, as likely as not, that she died before anyone even arrived to kill her.

But when Susan imagined herself telling Peter of her reasoning on the matter, and thought how angry he'd be, how much of a coward he would view her as, she realized she couldn't do it. She couldn't agree to let them kill Lucy's wolf. They might sign the Prince of Calormen's wretched papers, against her wishes, but she wouldn't _help _them to go wrong, not like this.

Only, when she opened her mouth again, to speak, Susan thought of something else. What if Rabadash's words about 'the wolf' hurting Edmund was a threat? If something happened, and Rabadash should find her lost half-brother before her own search-party did... He was taking revenge on Maya, but would he stop there? His temper-or, rather, his spite, which was the real problem-was too unreliable.

"All I was going to say," sighed Susan, closing her eyes, "was that... That, it all happened so quickly, the fight, I don't know-I don't remember-I didn't properly understand...I mean, see, that is. I didn't really see what happened." _And I'm the biggest, most spineless liar in all of Narnia_.

Tumnus gave her a single, highly disappointed, look; but she would not meet his eyes.

They both knew the truth. Except, it didn't matter. Not then. All that truly mattered was finding Edmund, and then keeping both the twins safe. As for Maya, perhaps there was a way out for her, but Susan couldn't fathom what it might be.

However, Tumnus, rising from his chair, shaking his head, _could_.

Just as the subject had (finally) turned from signing papers and killing innocent wolves to the matter at hand, and he had insisted that, when all the details were sorted, he should of course be allowed to ride out with the search-party, whomever else might be included in it, Tumnus claimed to have a sudden pressing personal matter that could not wait another minute and left the counsel.

For a doubt-filled flickering half-second, Susan felt abandoned and cross. Then, she recalled how Master Tumnus had always been good to her. Doubtless, whatever he was doing, it was important. He might even be finding a way to save Maya, or to find Edmund's location-wherever it might be-more quickly.

She _needed _to trust him; there were so _few _persons she could trust these days, it seemed! Out of all her dear advisers, the very ones she had felt were like dear old uncles to her, keeping her in line in their stern yet dotting way when needed but letting her do as she must the rest of the time, only Peridan's father and Tumnus alone had not eventually given in and signed Prince Rabadash's presented documents. How could she have been so blind to have never thought, even for a moment, that Rabadash might not one day ask them to sign over parts of Narnia into his care, using the same absurd claims that she was 'too close' to this or that pressing issue, matter, or situation? The possibilities made her fight back a round of shudders.

Tumnus made his way straight to where Maya was, Lucy keeping constant vigil, only as of the late hours leaving her side, staggering over to various doors on opposite ends of Cair Paravel as if she expected her twin to come running through them at any moment, returning to her wolf's side dejectedly, always with tears drying on her blotched face.

When she wandered off again, her hope greatly waned, Tumnus came and scooped up Maya in his arms, though it was not at all easy (it is no simple task for a relatively small-boned faun to lift up a grown wolf, even a female), and carried her off, sneaking out of the castle walls by means of little-known passages. He felt sorry for how horrid he knew Princess Lucy would feel when she returned and saw her friend gone, but there was nothing else for it.

For, as Tumnus whispered to Maya, setting her down in the forest by a stream (the same one, it happens, Peter and Susan swam in the night they went out there), "You're weak, my friend. You might die-or be killed-out here; but if you stay at Cair, you definitely _will_. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Swallowing back a catch in his throat, almost a full sob but not quite, the faun stroked the fur on the wolf's head once, very gently and lightly, then left her alone to fend for herself.

It took strenuous effort, but eventually Maya managed to lift her limp, shaky body off the ground by the stream and wander a bit. Constantly, she had to stop, panting heavily.

Some vultures came round, and she started shaking badly; only, they turned out to be talking vultures and were more interested in whatever they were discussing amongst themselves than they were in the weak-possibly dying-wolf. So that was all right.

It came to pass that she spotted, at the mouth of a little cave formed between some raised rocky crags, a familiar dark-headed boy of eight, and, stumbling forward, ran to him.

Maya was not _his _wolf (Maugrim was gone, for ever), but she brought Edmund a sense of unexpected comfort all the same, and, when he was satisfied, both from her shyly murmured account and from what he could see for himself, that Lucy was not coming, too, he allowed the poor sickly creature to come and sit inside the cave with him. She put her front paws and head down in his lap, whined, and let him rest his hand on her ears; occasionally, he stroked them in an absent manner.

He had an attack, but thankfully it was a smaller one. It was possible to handle those without Lucy; sometimes he had ones so bad he thought he was dying or worse. It was, basically, the difference between the feeling of being set on fire and the feeling of being hit in the head with a brick. The one he'd had when he saw Peter kill Maugrim (after thwarting the event he saw before that) was particularly ghastly. This one made the poor boy cringe (it _hurt_) and bring his hand up from Maya's ears to his temples and forehead, moaning, but nothing worse came of it. His eyes were shut tight, and when Edmund opened them up again, looking down wearily at Maya's furry, half-asleep form still curled up beside him, licking the back of his hand in an almost mechanical fashion from time to time, knowing her Lucy's twin was unwell, they were a vivid green. It always took a little while for them to turn brown again.

One thing Edmund saw, in the few comprehensible flashes he could gather without being too distracted by the excruciating pain to notice, was Susan coming for him. And he decided he would go with her when she arrived, when she found him.

Running away had seemed a good idea at the time, except he was already realizing he could not be whole without his twin sister (he couldn't lose her in _addition_ to Maugrim, especially not voluntarily). Moreover, if, being the son of a witch, he was some kind of monster, perhaps it was best that that monster be contained behind castle walls. Edmund didn't want to hurt anyone-himself included-he just felt so _tired_ sometimes, like he couldn't go on.

Right then, he was so tired that he almost didn't have enough energy left even to hate Sir Peter Wolf's-Bane with. That is, almost. He still did hate him; his weariness just wouldn't let him _dwell_ on it at the moment. It might have had something to do with his not having eaten anything for several hours, missing at least one major meal in the time he had been gone, though that obviously wasn't all of it, much of it being the after-effect of his attack.

So, yes, he would go back willingly, when Susan arrived, and take whatever adventure (or punishment, more likely) befell him. But Maya couldn't come with him; Cair Paravel was no longer a safe place for wolves; she would only be killed or else sent away in secret exile again.

Meanwhile, the search-party had set out, consisting of Susan, Peter, Peridan, Caspian, Tirian, Tumnus, and Trumpkin (Lucy had wanted to come, too, especially after discovering Maya was gone, but they wouldn't let her).

They rode first for the forest, knowing it was the most likely place for an eight year old boy to hide-or even get lost-in. It wasn't really in Edmund's nature to be easily lost, but it wasn't wholly _impossible_, either.

Peridan and Caspian were at the head of the group; Trumpkin and Tumnus were just behind them, peering through gold spyglasses so they'd be sure to spot the errant prince if he was out in the open, even from a distance. Personally, Tumnus thought that Edmund was too clever to be in plain sight, as he and Lucy were the best hiders the faun had ever seen, but Susan had ordered the spyglasses be taken along and he agreed to use one to please her. And although he didn't know Edmund as well as Tumnus did, Trumpkin thought the same (that the prince would not be such a fool as to be in the open if he didn't wish to be found), yet he knew there was a difference between giving advice and taking orders. He had given Queen Susan the advice, saying what he thought straight-off when she first handed him one of the spyglasses; now was the time for taking orders and doing as she commanded.

At first Tirian rode alongside Susan and Peter, but after a bit they fell behind him so that they were riding only in ear-shot of each other.

Susan noticed Peter looked as if he were deep in thought. "Peter?"

"Yes?"

"What are you thinking about?" It felt strange, speaking to him in such a calm manner, with such a seemingly ordinary question, after what she had been trying to tell him before Edmund was announced as missing, leaving the whole matter entirely unresolved, but she wanted to know.

He shook his head. "You won't like it."

"Why not? Tell me."

"You can't order me to," he said softly.

She _could_, actually, he being only a knight and her the queen of Narnia, but she didn't say so. "I'm not ordering you," she said, her tone meek. "I'm _asking_, as a friend."

Peter sighed. "I was thinking, what makes an eight year old boy so unhappy he'd run away from home?"

"He doesn't like you at the moment," Susan blurted, not shortly or unkindly, simply as fact. "Or Rabadash. And he's not been right with Maugrim g-gone." She had a hard time getting the last word out, stammering slightly, in a such manner that would have shamed the speech and grammar tutors that had brought her up.

"That's not all of it," said Peter. "Maugrim was his friend, Su."

"I _know _that."

"Maybe the only friend, aside from Lucy and Tumnus, he really had."

"Why are you saying this?"

"Susan, I think it's you he's upset with."

"_Me_?" She couldn't help being offended, her lips pursing automatically with tight outrage.

"I mean, think about it. Here's a boy who hasn't ever really had a mother or a father, and his elder sister's the closest thing he's got." Peter blinked, pausing to let that sink in. "Maybe you should have been the first person he went to, Su, when things were unbearable, when his twin couldn't be there for him because she was suffering too. So I ask myself, why didn't he? Was it shame? Was it anger? Anger at you because Maugrim died after attacking you?" He swallowed hard, then went on. "No, it couldn't be that."

"And why not?"

"Because if he blamed you, he wouldn't have enough hatred left in him for me," Peter explained. "I'm the one he blames for what happened. I'd do it again in a heartbeat, to save you, Su, but that doesn't mean I'm not sorry. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

"So, I think I've finally figured it out. The reason Edmund felt hopeless enough to leave Cair wasn't spite, or even fear; it was sadness. Because, somewhere along the way, his elder sister lost her sense of joy. And life without joy isn't a life for anyone." He reached out and lightly touched the back of her hand as it held Snowflake's reins. "Especially a child, Su."

She veered her horse slightly to right, yanking her hand away.

For about half an hour, Susan was furious, but as the search-party went on, and Peter stayed quiet, not even trying to bridge the gap she'd created between her horse and his unicorn, she began to think that perhaps he was right. She was always scolding Edmund for something or other; she rarely ever hesitated to blame him when something went wrong with Lucy. When was the last time she had tried to make her little brother smile, or even looked kindly on him when he was in a good mood? Could it be that the real reason what Peter said stung so much, nearly breaking her heart, was because it was _true_?

It must be, she decided. She knew Peter didn't say things simply to hurt her, not like Rabadash did.

She closed the gap between their steeds.

"Are you still mad at me?" he asked.

"No," she told him. "I'm sorry."

"That's all right, Su," said Peter. "But I think it isn't me you should say that to."

"I know." She inhaled sharply, closed her eyes, and let out a deep breath.

It was nearly sunset when they found Edmund, sitting outside of the cave, waiting to go back to Cair Paravel with them. His eyes were brown again by this point and, aside from visible exhaustion and ruffled hair and clothing, he had little to show for his attack; nothing that wouldn't have been the case with _any_ child who'd been missing for the greater part of a day.

No one knew why Edmund glanced back over his shoulder, into the cave, as he was helped onto the back of Peridan's horse. No one, that is, except for Edmund himself. He was looking, of course, for Maya. He decided he'd come back for her one day, if she hadn't gone wild and dumb by then, as some talking creatures under terrible distress are wont to do.

As for the chance of her dying, he wasn't too worried about that; Edmund was fairly sure she would live.

Maya, he thought, was a survivor.

With Edmund safely back behind castle walls, embraced tightly by a teary-eyed Lucy, who implored him in their twin-speak never to leave her again, Susan was finally able to take Peter's hand and lead him to a private vestibule where they could finish their former conversation, which was none the worse, it turned out, for being a little delayed.

**AN: Pleaseth to be leaving a review...th... LOL. **


	17. In Which, A Last Minute Lie Is Told

Susan squinted, focusing all her attention and energy on the target. Her fingers wrapped so tightly around the front of the bow that they ached, but her hold on the end of the arrow fitted into the bowstring was a gentle one.

_Twang_! She let the arrow fly.

It hit the target, perfectly embedding itself dead-centre in the bullseye.

"Dreadful business for a woman," said an oily voice behind her. "Shooting, that is. I think I told you once before, O delight of my eyes, that I don't like to see you doing archery."

"If I were you I'd invest in blindfolds." Peter approached them, giving Rabadash a brief disdainful glance and then focusing his whole attention on Susan. He had seen the shot as well, and thought it wonderful. It really was no wonder Lucy was so often going on and on about how desperately she wanted to learn to shoot a bow and arrow like her elder sister.

Susan smiled, setting down her bow and reaching for a goblet of fresh well water a centaur had set out for her. "Hullo, Peter."

"_Hullo, Peter_," Rabadash mimicked under his breath. "Bah."

Susan ignored him. She wondered, offhandedly, how she had never noticed that Rabadash's dark eyes were too close together and, especially when he was mocking someone, they looked ungallantly crossed. In comparison, her Peter had such lovely, friendly, downright _handsome_ blue eyes. _They_ never looked crossed. Well, except one time; but he'd been doing that purposefully to amuse Lucy in that instance, so that was all right. She personally thought a _real_ prince oughtn't _ever_ be cross-eyed unwittingly; it looked undignified.

"Can I have a go?" Peter asked, gesturing at the bow and spare arrows.

Susan raised an eyebrow and lowered the goblet's rim from her lips, surprised.

"_You're_ an archer?" snipped Rabadash.

"No, not at all," he replied coolly.

Agreeably, feeling very intrigued, Susan picked up the bow and an arrow, helping fit it correctly into Peter's hands.

After a few minutes of struggling, she began to suspect he was purposefully holding it wrong so that she'd have to put her arms round him and straighten his aim by manually lifting his elbows. She knew he wasn't so graceless and clumsy as all that. He was no archer, it was true, but she'd seen how he held a sword, how smoothly he could move when he wanted to. A small child could have gripped the bow with more skill than Peter displayed.

If she hadn't loved him, Susan would have found this irksome. As it was, she found it endearing and did her best not to blush when she figured out exactly what he was up to.

Rabadash was too stupid to figure it out, thinking the boy was nothing but a barbarian oaf and not at all worthy of being even a mild threat to his having what he wanted, but he _did_ notice the way Susan looked at him when she finally got his arms, hands, and fingers in their right positions and he regarded her playfully out of the corner of one eye. Now, _that_ the Calormene prince did not like one bit. Queen Susan, his betrothed, shouldn't have been looking at some pathetic knight (who was only even that much because of_ his_ poisoning those horrible wolves in the first place) with such open adoration. What a foolish, savage little flirt she was! When she was his wife, he would have to teach her a sharp lesson about proper behavior; no more of this northern familiarity with fellows of lower ranking, and no more archery, either.

If Rabadash could have, if he'd been in his own country, playing entirely by his own rules and those of his forefathers, he would have kept Peter way from her by force from then on. As it was, the Narnians seemed to think their royalty should be permitted to do as they pleased in-between their duties and meetings with the counsel, even if it was vulgar and unbecoming. He didn't know how Susan and Peter felt about each other, too pompous to imagine a queen would choose anybody else-much less someone like _Sir Peter_, who was so dim he couldn't even hold a bow and arrow straight-over the Calormene glory that was his princely self, so he did nothing but glower and continue to dream of a future in which he would make Susan 'proper'.

After archery, Susan had some queenly duties that needed taking care of, including settling a land-claim matter between a talking bear and a rather grumpy naiad, who came into the throne room frowning and dripping.

When she was free again, she sought out Peter's company.

It was a warm day, slightly humid, with the sort of hot air that, while it doesn't cause fainting or profuse perspiration, it does indeed make one feel like not doing anything much if they are spending the day-or even simply the hour-out of doors. Peter and Susan, both fairly contented in their new feelings, soaked up this sort of day like a sponge gathers water; it suited them splendidly.

They didn't swim, though they were lying in the grass by the stream in the woods (the same one they'd been to before, as well as the one Tumnus left Maya at), but they did occasionally (when they could be bothered to sit up) scoot to the edge of the bank and dangle their bare feet in the water.

For Susan, who had always believed perfection and happiness needed to be wholly dignified and lacking in any wildness, the delightful change of only caring a very little that her green archery dress (which she had changed back into after her meeting with the bear and the naiad, because she'd had to wear royal robes and jewels for that, as was expected of a queen) was grass-stained, or that her feet were partially caked with mud from the side of the stream, put her into a sort of quiet shock.

Most of the time she tried not to think about what she would do when her wedding to Rabadash arrived, since she could come up with no plan for ending it. She told herself that, as she was not yet fourteen, and their marriage would take place when she was fifteen, she had time, except she couldn't see what good mere _time_ would do. Moreover, she was too sensible to hope for a miracle. There by the stream, in that haziness and shock, however, she didn't have to try not to think about it, for the simple reason that it wasn't in her head at all. Not much _was_; save for the fact that, first off, it was warm and she felt rather lovely with the sun on her face, and, second, the boy she fancied was beside her, eyes half-closed except for when he rolled onto his side and opened them and looked at her for a few moments before turning back over onto his back again.

She didn't think of the twins, or of Rabadash, or even of the fact that soon she would have to go back to Cair, clean up, and be a right and regal queen again.

Instead, she noticed everything about Peter.

She would have never dreamed there was so much to notice about one single, solitary person who wasn't really _doing_ much. Yet she took it all in. She noticed when his chest rose and fell with his steady breathing; she noticed when he sighed and bent his arm, sticking it under his neck as a kind of makeshift headrest; she noticed that, if she scooted closer to him and slipped her hand into his, letting their fingers intertwine, the corners of his mouth turned up; and she noticed that there were five folds that were not quite wrinkles in the sleeve of his tunic, resisting the urge to sit up, lightly grab hold of his arm, and smooth them out.

Peter was, for his part, the more innocent in their new-found romance, in spite of the fact that he was older. He never imagined Susan _still _thought she would have to marry that awful Rabadash; he preferred to let himself believe, perhaps against the way logic really _should_ have directed his thinking on the matter, she would send that Calormene prince packing when the time was right. Or that he himself would-or _could_. He was satisfied with the fact that their new admiration for each other was concealed for the reason that he didn't think it would be like that _for ever_.

And, for the time being, Peter Pevensie was as contented as anyone who is in love when the weather is fine and the land is warm and still can be.

The two or three days that followed were continued heaven for the young couple.

Rabadash somehow got himself a nasty hangnail as well as the start of some gangrene on another toe, putting him-and his attendants who might have spied on Susan-out of commission for a bit.

The Calormene prince kept busy with his foot propped up on a cushion, whining out orders and fussing about how he would tell the Tisroc of the 'negligence with which he was being unjustly treated'.

Tumnus, coming into the room to bring him hot tea (the Narnian servants and kitchen staff had drawn lots to see who would have to go, since nobody wanted to have to take anything to Rabadash, and the faun had unfortunately drawn the short straw), pointed out that, for the most part, it was the prince's own attendants brought from Calormene who were taking care of him, so he couldn't really blame the Narnians for much in that regard.

The prince then grunted that the food (which was definitely taken care of by the Narnians) was too northern, too cold, dreadfully overcooked, and not brought up to him in a timely fashion.

Meanwhile, outside, Peter took his unicorn out for some exercise and, after about twenty minutes, swung by the back stable-door, where Susan waited for him, helping her up behind him.

They rode along the shoreline one day, and ventured into the forest again the next. They even went back to their stream and let the unicorn graze and drink. Susan laughed, watching the unicorn toss his mane back and snort when he drank too quickly and the water went up his nose. She showed Peter how to make a daisy chain; and he strung some acorn cups into a little crown-like circlet which he placed on her head when it was finished.

The third day, it was raining and they were stuck inside of Cair Paravel. Susan didn't mind so much; she was not really an outdoor person by nature. The only thing that worried her was that there was more chance of being spied on indoors, in a castle full of twisty passageways, arches, and pillars to hide behind, than in an open forest glade or on the beach where only the servants cleaning the windows on that side were at all likely to see anything.

Not, of course, that if anyone walked in on them, there would be anything remotely scandalous to report; they just spent time together, sitting about, same as they had when they were mere friends, though it felt a bit different now. All the same, if perchance, thinking themselves alone, they kissed in greeting (as they had gotten into a slight habit of doing) or else embraced longer than was strictly courteous, even in such an informal court, and someone should see... And if they were constantly seen alone together and it became widely known, somebody was bound to think something of it eventually.

Susan had thought, naturally, of keeping the twins with them at all times, so no one could say anything, but that was highly impractical. Edmund still hated Peter; and Lucy, at finding Peter around less often, while she still loved him best of any friends save for her twin brother, occupied herself as of late by playing with Tirian (who she seemed to like well enough, even though she never said more than two words in English to him) when Edmund's company was unavailable. Besides, she liked to be able to relax when she was alone with Peter, let her guard down a bit. Susan couldn't do that with two eight-year-old twins scuffling around behind the curtains and loudly scattering bags full of marbles on the floor.

They ended up spending the day in a chamber that was rather like what, in Peter's world, might have been called a game room. Except, of course, that instead of Pac-man or Donkey Kong, or perhaps air hockey, there were solid gold chess-sets and checker boards set up with rubies and onyxes as the playing pieces, as well as a game that was something like dominoes made of marble and silver.

They played only one game of chess (Susan lost) and then spent the rest of the day just talking and occasionally looking out the window at the splattering rain.

Peter had no jewels or gifts to give Susan (he didn't think an acorn-cup crown counted), but he did give her the digital watch he'd brought into Narnia with him from his own world.

At least, he thought, fastening it on her wrist, no one else here has one, which makes it _kind_ of special.

Susan was utterly delighted with it, even if she thought it a mite funny-looking. She liked it simply because it was from Peter.

She even wore it under her long sleeves to a small feast that evening (which, unfortunately, Rabadash deemed himself well enough to attend and sit at her side during).

The watch went off unexpectedly and Peter, immediately knowing what it was, went red in the face.

Susan didn't have a chance to think of an excuse before Rabadash grabbed onto her arm (and not very gently either) and rolled up her sleeve, locating the source of the sound.

"What is that?" he demanded.

"A piece of jewelry," Susan said defiantly, holding her head up in a stubborn manner. "And I like it."

He let go of her arm and turned back to his plate, muttering something about northern witchcraft and queens that needed to be taught to mind their place.

Walking out of the banqueting hall after that incident, Susan never let on, but her heart was thudding. Rabadash didn't know the watch from from Peter, thankfully. But it still felt too close to her secret for comfort. Oh, Aslan, what _was_ she going to do? She couldn't marry him-she thought she'd rather die than have to pretend to still be in love with Rabadash for ever. Now that she knew what real love was like, the made-up version in her head would never be able to comfort her. She would never again believe her prince could change. No, Rabadash was rotten through and through; and, truly, he was no more hers than a dumb yet deadly poisonous serpent in the kitchen gardens was a Narnian subject.

"Are you all right?" Peter whispered, passing her in the corridor.

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. "Why couldn't _you_ have been a prince?"

He had no answer, but his mouth opened slightly anyway. Only, she was gone from his side before he could even get so much as an audible squeak of speechlessness out of his throat.

The problem with Susan being so busy feeling sorry for herself was that there was something she plain forgot to take into account. She moped about how she loved Peter and was hating Rabadash more with each passing day, and how hopelessly frustrating it all was, yet from the very moment she had accepted the idea that Catalina might be in love with Peter as well, she promptly forgot about her cousin altogether. Strange, as it was partly through assessing Catalina's feelings that Susan had begun to realize her own. All the same, it seemed unimportant in the great scheme of things and, as her brain was full of so many other worries (for the twins, for her country, for Tumnus-because even though he claimed to be in perfect health, she didn't always believe him), her mind did not stop to consider what it meant. She had no notions of hurting her cousin, simply because she did not think of her.

And as Catalina didn't know anything about Susan and Peter, thinking that if her cousin was in love with anybody it was that awful betrothed of hers, there was nothing to prevent her from approaching Peter with her feelings when she mustered up the nerve to do so.

She found Peter grooming his unicorn one morning and leaned over the stall's door (it only came up to roughly the start of her waist). "Good day."

"Hello there." He nodded in her direction and finished combing a slightly matted mud-clod out of the unicorn's mane.

She wrung her hands. "Could I speak with you?"

Suspecting nothing, Peter shrugged and put the brush down on the low wall that divided his unicorn's living quarters from that of the horse in the next stall over. "Sure. What's on your mind?"

Taking a deep breath, she began to tell him.

Peter listened, confused.

Really, he thought he only understood one in every five words she was saying, despite the fact that she was speaking plain English. Perhaps it was simply that none of what she seemed to be going on about made any sense. At first, he thought she was saying something about them being friends; which, he'd assumed, they already were. Well, they weren't _close_ exactly, maybe more like friends-in-law or something; but he still liked her well enough and enjoyed talking to her whenever they fell into each other's company. She was pretty and smart, and he'd always found it easy to talk to girls in general, probably because his best friend growing up in England had been a girl.

Only, Catalina's speech didn't fit when applied to mere friendship.

It wasn't till her voice slowed down and her tone hushed to a whisper, and she-quite suddenly-leaned forward, as if to kiss him, that he understood.

Sighing, Peter retreated further back into the stall, shaking his head apologetically. "I'm sorry, Catalina."

Embarrassed, she bit onto her lower lip.

"I'm flattered," Peter said gently. "Truly, I am. I just... I just don't think of you in that way."

She glanced down at her feet. "Oh."

"Don't be upset," he told her. "I do like you, but not like _that_."

Catalina forced a weak smile that did not reach her eyes and fiddled with a golden chain round her neck, nodding. "It's fine, Peter." Letting go of the chain and looking up, she said, "I have to go. I guess I'll see you around."

In time, Catalina might have forgotten Peter, if nothing else that day had called him to mind or made her feel hurt over what happened.

That, however, was not to be.

For, not even a full three hours later, she was walking down a corridor, looking for Doctor Cornelius and Caspian, when she heard a distinctive giggle coming from a bend round the other side, behind a marble pillar.

"I told you, I'm busy today," whispered a familiar girl's voice, breathlessly. "A talking monkey and talking crocodile got into some kind of debate-over something to do with apples, I think. Whatever the case, I have to settle the matter. Then I have a meeting with my advisers."

"Take an hour off," begged a boy's voice. "I doubt ignoring the monkey vs. crocodile case for sixty minutes will cause a deadly crisis in Narnia."

"Peter..."

"Oh, come on, just an hour. We can go fishing at the stream."

"Fishing? Seriously?"

"What? I love fishing."

"Really? You love it?"

"Um, yeah..."

"I have never once seen you fish."

"Well, that's because you're always in a meeting with your advisers."

"That is not true. You don't fish."

"Are you calling me a liar?" His voice was teasing now.

"Maybe," she teased back.

"It'll be fun. We'll sneak out a back door, jump on the unicorn, carry a bucket of worms, sing some fishing songs..."

"You almost had me till you brought up the worms. And what fishing song?"

Peter, who didn't actually know any real 'fishing songs', wildly invented a rather silly off-key ditty about fish on the spot.

"By the Lion! What in the world was _that_?" She sounded somewhere between amused and_ scared_.

"Say yes or there's a second verse."

Catalina crept towards the voices as they continued their playful taunting back and forth.

"All right, listen. I just want to spend time with you," Peter was saying. "We don't have to fish-or carry a bucket of worms. I promise."

"Peter, I want to, very much, I _can't_."

"Not an hour, then. Five minutes?"

"I can't go anywhere with you in five minutes, Peter," she said practically.

Catalina was almost close enough to see them by this point, but she was moving slowly so that they wouldn't hear her footsteps and be startled.

They'd stopped talking.

When Catalina finally saw them, she understood why.

They were kissing.

And when they broke apart, Catalina's silent suspicion was proven true. From the moment she heard the girl's voice, she knew it was probably Susan. Who else had advisers and such a busy schedule?

So _this_ was why Peter hadn't been interested in her! Who would want the attention of a noblewoman when they had a queen?

It didn't seem right, Susan betrothed to Rabadash and going round kissing Peter behind pillars. Catalina didn't care much for the crown prince of Calormen herself (his attitude and politics alone were enough to make her secretly long to throw darts at him more often than not), but that didn't make it acceptable for Susan to amuse herself with whoever she pleased behind his back, either.

If it hadn't been someone Catalina herself had feelings for, it's possible that she might have kept silent on the matter, at least long enough to ask Susan about it first before she told anyone, but, as the matter stood, she felt betrayed and was not inclined to talk to her cousin at all for the time being.

The first person she ran into (quite literally, as he had never been taught to move out of the way of lower ranking persons than himself, especially not in private) happened to be Prince Rabadash.

For a second, she considered... She considered telling him what Susan had been doing with Peter.

The prince's facial expression was irritated already. There was no need to make it worse. If he knew, there was no telling how he might react. Catalina didn't want to start a fight, or a castle-wide riot, that could turn into an international incident. No, it was best if she went straight to Susan's advisers; they would know what to do.

When her advisers (all except for Tumnus, who was in the orchard, attempting to give an inattentive Lucy and Edmund a lesson in botany) filed into the throne room, Susan knew she was in trouble; she could tell just by the stern, anxious looks on their faces. She didn't know, right away, _what _she was in trouble for, but she knew _something _was amiss.

"Your Majesty," one of them began, "we have reason to believe that you are not so fond of-or loyal to-Prince Rabadash of Calormen as you ought to be."

"I don't know what you mean," Susan blurted, much too quickly, stiffening in her throne. _How did they find out?_

They hinted at her relationship with Peter, so that-as she was not an idiot-she knew that were now aware of it, but for the most part they questioned her attachment to the alliance between Calormen and Narnia in such a way that she found herself feeling dreadfully frightened. She didn't know what to say. The chance of Rabadash becoming a dangerous enemy if he knew she no longer liked him was a very real threat; her advisers' worried faces were not without cause.

This should, perhaps, have been her moment to finally stick up for what she felt; for the young queen to say that she loved Sir Peter and couldn't marry Rabadash even if her life depended on it (as she was beginning to think might well be the case), but she was thoroughly cowed.

Intimidated, she let tears spring up into her eyes as she sobbed, "No, you're _wrong_. It isn't true! It isn't! I've never been unkind-or untrue-to Prince Rabadash. I don't know where you heard it from, but it's simply not true, my lords. I'm _devoted_ to him."

Peridan's father especially looked doubtful, but her crying did seem sincere enough, so as a whole the advisers decided they wouldn't worry about the alliance for the time being. Their queen claimed to care for the prince; they might as well let her be for a while, so long as they kept an eye on her.

Susan felt like a weight had been lifted off her chest. They were going to let her alone. Now, if only she could figure out who-or _what_-their source was and plead with-or else _order_-that person to keep silent until she could solve this whole dilemma _without_ causing a Calormene invasion in Narnia...

Her face went white.

The advisers had gone, but she saw a shadow and a familiar tunic sleeve flicker in the doorway.

_Peter_!

How long had he been there? It wouldn't have been difficult for him to turn aside and press his back against the wall as her advisers left; he could have been there the whole time and heard everything she said, every lie she'd told...

"Wait!" She got up and ran for the door, sliding out into the corridor. "Peter, wait!"

He stopped and turned slowly. "Yes, your Majesty?"

She took in his expression. "You're angry with me."

"You don't miss a thing," he snapped.

"Peter, I didn't-"

"If you would excuse me, your Majesty, I've got things to do," Peter said coldly. "But why don't you talk about whatever's on your mind with Prince Rabadash? Seeing as you're _so_ devoted to him."

Susan recoiled, feeling like she'd been slapped across the face. "Peter, I _lied_."

"Oh, I'm well aware of that," he said shortly, his voice cracking. "I know you lied. The problem is, Susan, I'm not sure _who_ you lied to."

**AN: Please review.**


	18. A Foe Whose Name is Death

**AN: I'm going away this weekend, and I probably won't have spare time/internet where I'm at, so please don't expect any further updates and/or review replies and/or messages of any sort from me until at LEAST Monday or Tuesday. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter. **

It is a funny thing-often manifesting itself in a rather terrible way-how a person never knows when tragedy might strike in their lives. One or two smaller troubles, even if wholly legitimate, might seem like the end of the world to the afflicted, and then something else-something, far, far worse-happens and suddenly the world-now cold and dark and terrifying-is snapped back into bitter perspective.

That is how it was for Susan. The young queen was in what she believed to be absolute despair. Nothing was right in her life: Peter wouldn't speak to her, nor even come into her presence if not summoned (and even then he avoided her eyes and only coldly muttered, "Yes, your Majesty," to whatever she said), the twins were as hard to manage as ever, and Prince Rabadash showed no signs of going home to Calormen any time soon. She honestly thought matters couldn't get any worse; almost that a Calormene invasion itself mightn't have been so bleak as all this, much as her sensible mind still reminded her chidingly that it would have been hard luck on her subjects, on the innocent persons who were going about their lives when the hypothetical invasion would have taken place.

But, then, one afternoon, without warning, things _did _get worse.

"It looks like rain," Susan said demurely, seated on the stone bench in the garden, glancing up from the sampler she was stitching and regarding the sky with a dull-and entirely _fake_-air of calmness.

No one in the garden acknowledged her comment.

Peter, only there because he was avoiding Rabadash and the other Calormenes the prince had brought with him, who seemed to be running all over Cair that day as if they already owned it, had nothing to say to her. The anger and hurt he felt over what he'd heard her say to her advisers the other day was still sharp. Annoying Calormenes or no annoying Calormenes, if he'd known Susan, too, had sought refuge in the garden, he might have chosen a different 'hiding' place.

Edmund, Susan noticed, was busy doing something semi-productive for once: stringing a row of glass beads together, making some sort of bracelet. He had picked up a lot of odd, easily discarded the moment they ceased to distract him, hobbies following Maugrim's death; the current one appeared to be jewelry-making.

And, as for Lucy, she was brushing the hair of a doll she had in her lap, humming lightly to herself. She seemed not even to realize her elder sister had spoken. Perhaps she hadn't heard her at all, too lost in her own little thoughts.

That left only Master Tumnus. He was sitting with his back against a thick shrub. Having come into the garden with the original premise of trying to teach Edmund and Lucy some Geography (in spite of the fact that it was, oddly enough, his own worst subject, having not studied it hard enough as a little faun), he'd finally given up and settled on enjoying the day.

Enjoying the day would have been a great deal easier if only it had been bright and sunny out and he felt better. As things stood, it had drizzled that morning, the very real threat of heavier rain (which Susan had just pointed out) still looming over Cair Paravel, casting everything into shadows of grayness.

And Tumnus was a bit ill; he was weak and a mite dizzy when he stood up too quickly, and there was this irritating numbness that came and went on one side of his body every few minutes. He had chest pains, but that was nothing new; he often had them, along with breathlessness, simply saying nothing because he didn't want Susan or the twins to worry. He would be fine, most likely, as he always was. And, if not, there was no need to get them upset beforehand. He hated to see his charges sad or frightened, preferring to shield them from unpleasantness whenever possible.

A crackle of distant thunder rumbled.

Peter coughed into his hand and shifted one leg that had fallen asleep (he'd been sitting on it because the grass was a little damp) out from under himself. It was all pins and needles, and he winced as feeling slowly came back, first to his foot and ankle and then to the rest of the leg.

Tumnus, thinking that he might like to go inside and lie down for a bit, seeing as he wasn't actually teaching the twins anything at the moment and yet they seemed to be up to no mischief he had to intercede in behalf of, rose up and took a few steps on his goat-hooves towards the castle.

He did not make it very far.

Susan heard the faun let out a moan of pain and thrust her sampler aside, going to him.

He had one hand pressed against his heart and he was slumped down, his goat-legs flat and useless on the ground in a miserable heap like two fuzzy sticks at his side.

Edmund and Lucy left behind their playthings and ran to him as well.

"Master Tumnus?" Susan said frantically, shaking him. "What is it? What's the matter?"

The thunder boomed nearer and rain came out of the clouds, falling down on their hunched-over figures in thick, cold sheets.

Tumnus glanced at the twins. "Don't cry."

There were already tears streaming down Lucy's face; Edmund's was quite dry, but it was distorted into a grave expression of horror.

"Peter," said Susan, "go get help. He's not well. Something's very wrong."

Peter nodded and ran out of the garden as quickly as his legs would carry him.

"T-tumnus," stammered Lucy, her voice sounding older and strange (mostly out of place because she so rarely spoke in full English sentences to anyone who wasn't Peter), "I wish we'd been real nice, n-normal children and h-h-helped you more."

"No," murmured the faun, looking up at her with tears glistening in his own eyes. "_I_ don't. Not even a little bit. I have been very happy with my twins; my twins that I love. It wasn't any so-called normal child that hung Rabadash by a hook, or that found Peter in the Lantern Waste, or who tamed a pair of witch-bred wolves, now was it? No, it was you two."

Edmund said nothing, but he came nearer to the faun, who reached up and patted the side of his face. "You've got _royal _blood in you, that's _all_. Don't let anyone..." He panted for breath. "Don't let anyone ever tack anything else onto that if they come to talking about it."

"Master Tumnus!" cried Susan, chilled to the bone, soaked through, and blubbing as if her heart would break. His face was losing colour; he was...but he couldn't be...he couldn't be... He couldn't be _dying_, not really... _Could_ he? No, not _Tumnus_... Tumnus was young and brave, and her friend; death was for old subjects and her parents, already long asleep in it, but not for _him_.

"You're a good queen, Susan, always have been." The faun's words began to slur and his eyes closed halfway. "A very good one."

"No!" screamed Lucy, shaking him more roughly than Susan had been doing up till a fraction of a second ago. "Wake up." For he looked like he'd fallen asleep without any warning; except it was the middle of the day, people weren't supposed to sleep till nighttime.

Edmund had to pry Lucy off of the faun and put his arm round her shaking shoulders. "Aglye Endeto, Lu."

And this, this little sentence from their twin language, unlike her friend's sudden death, made sense to her; she understood it, and clung more tightly to her twin brother as if she were afraid that, if she was not touching him, he would leave her next.

Peter finally returned-several knights, Peridan's father, Lord Asher, Trumpkin, and a centaur physician with him-but one look-not at Tumnus, but at _Susan's_ face-told him that nothing in any world would do him any good.

"It's too late," the young queen wept brokenly, swallowing hard. "He's gone."

That he was cross with-and hurt by-her didn't matter; Peter took off his cloak, put it round Susan's shoulders, lifting the hood over her wet hair. And, clinging to her, he helped her up onto her feet.

It was left to him to comfort her. _Rabadash_, when he turned up, certainly wasn't going to do anything of the sort. As a matter of fact, all _he_ did upon coming into the garden was mutter under his breath about how it was an awful lot of fuss and hubbub to make over the death of one measly servant and, moreover, how crying did naught but ruin everything pleasant about Queen Susan's face.

At the time, Susan was too stunned and fragile-nerved to hear a word her betrothed said, but at the funeral held around the twilit hour when the rain finally let up and the twins had been coaxed, for once too despondent to care or try to escape the hands that held them in place, into dry clothes and black capes, hats, and dark buckled shoes for mourning, the Prince of Calormen repeated himself.

Susan was standing at his side, her wrung white hands sharp against the dark sleeves of her mourning gown, wishing she was standing with Peter and the twins instead.

Really, the twins ought to have been standing with _her_, but Lucy wouldn't be put near Rabadash (considering what he'd done to her hair, Susan couldn't blame her) and she wanted Peter. And as for Edmund, much as he hated Peter, he liked him better than the Calormene alternative (not exactly a high bar for anyone to clear) and wanted to stand by his twin.

Everyone who knew (no, Susan realized sadly, _had known_) Tumnus was steadily weeping, save for Edmund. He stood there, numbly, face every bit as dismal as everyone else's, just much drier.

Lucy couldn't handle it, only managing by squeezing Peter's hand and blinking to make way for more tears, gritting her teeth and clicking her tongue round in her mouth to muffle her noise. When the time came for the coffin to be closed and it hit her hard that Tumnus really was going to be packed away in the ground for ever and ever, her noise could no longer be muffled. She let go of Peter's hand, shrieking, "_Susan_!" and ran across the royal graveyard to her sister, throwing her arms around her middle. Peter and Tumnus might have been friends, too, but the faun hadn't raised him. He was losing a good companion but she and Edmund and Susan were losing something more than that. Edmund wouldn't cry with her about this, since he wasn't crying at all, and no one else except for Susan could understand. She was fond of Tirian, who told her how sorry he was about the whole thing, but he didn't feel what she was feeling; not really.

It was then that Rabadash chose to pick up his muttering again.

Susan, still clutching Lucy, who was as good as glued to her waist at the moment, twisted her neck and glared at him. "I understand you probably kill most of your servants before you bother to so much as learn their names, but here in Narnia we take the time to know them. And he wasn't _just a servant_; Master Tumnus was my_ friend_, and I _loved_ him!" she shrilled passionately, her voice going hoarse. "And he loved me more than you ever will!"

The faun giving the funeral speech dropped off, mid-sentence, mouth agape. Since when did Queen Susan raise her voice in public?

"Oh, Aslan..." Susan gasped, blushing, for she noticed that everyone was staring at her. "Was that out loud?"

Trumpkin, his wife, and his steward nodded when her eyes landed on them.

What would have happened next remained for ever unclear, because just as Rabadash reached out, as if to grab onto Susan's arm, or perhaps to pry Lucy off of her elder sister and shove her aside and _then_ grab onto Susan, two things happened. Peter came over to where they were standing and purposefully, yet with the pretense of it being quite accidental, situated himself in-between them before the prince's hand could so much as graze the queen's sleeve; and the faun hastily resumed his speech about how dearly Tumnus would be missed.

Peter was worried, though. He wasn't an idiot; he knew Rabadash would never forget how Susan had shouted at him like that, making him look like the cold, heartless fool he really was in front of all the courtiers.

Late that night, Susan couldn't sleep. She almost dozed off, lying in bed, but then she remembered how many times Tumnus had showed signs of illness-clutching at his chest, claiming it was only heartburn, nothing worse-breathless, but insisting it was nothing save for the fact that he was tired, or out of shape, or whatever excuse he felt suited the moment-and guilt crushed her. She should have done something; she could have saved him.

Then anger took over.

It wasn't fair! He should have taken better care of himself! If he knew something was wrong, he should have _told_ her! He should have trusted her. Why did he lie? To protect her? All it had done was hurt her and the twins more in the long run; they'd barely had a chance to say goodbye. How could he just leave her like this? He was her most trusted adviser. Could she even rule without him? Or take care of the twins without him?

I _trusted _you, Tumnus, Susan thought, how could you leave me here all by myself?

And immediately she felt horrible and selfish. He'd _died_, and here she was carrying on like a spoiled brat because she was scared to be alone. No wonder Peter didn't trust her; no wonder he didn't like her anymore; she hated herself, too.

Feeling as if she was going mad, she climbed out of bed and pulled a gray dressing-gown over her nightdress, fastening it round her middle.

Normally she would have gone to the throne room, but not in such a state. She couldn't be a queen right then, or even practice being one. She needed to be an ordinary girl in mourning for her friend who'd been the closest thing she had to a parent after her father died.

So she went into a sitting room. It would be silent in there, and dark. She could sit up instead of lying down and just discreetly fall to pieces.

But when she collapsed down onto a large pale blue sofa that looked almost white in the dark, the sobbing she instantly heard was not her own. Her face, she found, was dry. She hadn't been crying so much on the walk here. Indeed, she hadn't been crying much at all since the funeral and right after. She'd cried herself out then, only to be left with sore eyes now.

Yet, _somebody_ was crying steadily; Susan could hear them. The sound was muffled, coming, she thought, from the window-seat.

Rising slowly, she listened with more care. She thought it must be Lucy. Except, that didn't seem right. The manner of weeping _did_ seem familiar, as familiar as if it were her little sibling, but it didn't really sound like _Lucy,_ somehow.

The figure hunched over in the window-seat heard her approach at last and, shuddering, turned, lifted its head, and looked up.

It was Edmund.

"Oh, Ed!"

His eyes were redder even than hers, his face streaked with tears both dried and wet.

She reached out and smoothed back a lock of his short dark hair. "Shh..."

His chin quivered and three tears slid off the end of it.

"Don't cry so," said Susan automatically. "There, there now. It won't...it can't...bring him back. Lucy couldn't help blubbing at the funeral; neither could I. You were so quiet...you always are...so I never thought... Oh, I'm so sorry, Edmund." She scooted him over slightly so she could sit up there beside him. "I'm going to miss him, too."

Edmund reached up and wiped at his eyes with the back of his wrist.

"Edmund," she murmured, her voice softer, "I know I haven't been the best sister to you. I've been strict and boring, and I've blamed you for things without proof. But I've never... Oh, Ed, I just don't want you to ever think I don't love you as much as Tumnus did. I _do_ love you. You're my own blood: my only baby brother. I never cared..._never_...about who your mother was. And I love you every bit as much as I love Lucy. I just... I just didn't know how to show it."

Edmund blinked at her.

"I wish you would let me put you to bed, but, thinking it over now, I suppose you waited till Lucy fell asleep before you let yourself come out here and cry, didn't you? So perhaps I had best leave you to it."

As Susan tried to stand up, her legs feeling as useless as if they consisted of melted preserves rather than muscle and bone, she felt a hand take hold of her arm, keeping her down in the seat. Edmund wanted her to stay. Fresh tears springing up into her eyes, she pulled her brother into her arms, embracing him tightly.

And they sat there, holding and comforting each other, till it was nearly dawn and they had no more tears left in them; had nothing left but a sort of harsh quietness that made them feel nothing was ever going to happen again-good or bad.

That afternoon, weary with fatigue, Susan swooned while on her throne and slid off of it. She was carried by Peridan's father to bed, where she slept for she didn't know how long.

When she woke, Peter was sitting at her bedside holding her hand.

I'm dreaming, she thought, groaning and touching the center of her forehead with her free hand.

"Feeling any better, Su?"

"No," she croaked out truthfully. "I feel terrible."

"Here." He let go of her hand, lifted up a small porcelain basin of water, and made a motion as of to wring out a cool cloth.

"Thanks."

"I'm really sorry for your loss," Peter said, folding the cloth and putting it on her forehead, gently patting it down in the places where it bunched up slightly.

A trickle of cold water escaped from the cloth and ran down into her right ear. "You aren't cross with me anymore, Peter?"

He shook his head. "I suppose not."

"Did you figure out who I lied to?" she wanted to know.

"Actually, no."

"No?" Susan couldn't hide her disappointment, much as she tried.

"I think, deep down, I already knew."

"Oh." She felt her muscles relax. "Are the twins holding up all right?"

"No," he said truthfully.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not lying to me in a pathetic attempt to make me feel better."

"No problem, Su."

"Does anyone know you're in here?"

He smiled faintly. "No, of course not."

"Quite right." She sighed. "I figured no one would have _let _you in."

"I should probably go..."

"If it's all the same," whispered Susan. "Could you stay a while longer? I'm afraid."

"Of what?" Peter asked.

"I don't even know."

"I'll stay," he promised. "Until you fall asleep again, if I can."

"I'm not sure I want to sleep any more."

"Try if you like," Peter suggested. "If not, keep talking to me."

"You could tell me about New York," she said softly. "Or England, perhaps."

"Yeah, I could."

A long sigh came from the young queen following this.

"What's wrong?"

"I like hearing about your world, except, the more I hear of it, the more I want to _see_ it."

Peter patted her hand. "It's nothing like Narnia, you know."

"Right now," she said dismally, "that actually sounds pretty good."

**AN: Thoughts? Please review.**


	19. The Puzzle Solved

**AN: I'm sorry this took so long, but it really couldn't be helped. I was out of the area, and I had a massive migraine when I returned. But you aren't here for my excuses, I'm sure, LOL, so without further ado, here is chapter 19! **

**One more thing, for those of you who don't already know from reading my profile, there will most likely only be two more chapters in this fic after this one, ending Entanglement at exactly twenty-one chapters.**

**Oh crud, that probably counted as 'further ado', didn't it? **

**Rats. **

**LOL. **

Susan had a plan. She knew it wasn't a very _good_ plan; every practical fiber in her being told her so. But she was desperate.

With Tumnus gone, there was no hope of having someone to so much as turn a blind eye to her growing hatred of Rabadash and love for Peter, much less be willing, as a confidant, to help her end her betrothal.

True, all along she had known it was frankly, well, an out-right _impossible_ situation, but now, more than ever, she felt the walls closing in. Soon enough, she would be fourteen, leaving only a year until she had to marry Prince Rabadash.

Unless she dealt with the root of the problem before it came to that.

But _how_?

And so came her plan. For all its obvious faultiness, for all in it that could go so horribly wrong, perhaps even leaving her dead or worse, the young queen clung to it. At least, whatever the outcome, she would have done-would have tried-_something_. Girls like her-delicate, gentle, and beautiful-weren't supposed to do anything of this sort. They weren't supposed to try and save themselves; that was what knights and great heroes, the kind Susan had dreamed of growing up, even madly once believed Prince Rabadash to be, were for.

All her life, she'd been the motherly, castle-bound homebody who never rode out to battle, who would never dream of such a thing. Even now, the thought of such senselessness as one-on-one combat made her sick to her stomach. Archery was a pleasure, but she could never learn to like jousting or even simple swordplay for all they were worth or stood for. Those were noble_men_ duties, and she never comprehended the thoughts and notions of odd girls who believed otherwise. Narnian tradition or no, Susan never fathomed handling Rhindon, taking up a king's place; she was no warrior queen. Peter had saved her from Maugrim, but how could he save her from Rabadash, when it just as much involved saving her from herself? She was frightened of quarreling with Calormen. How plain and to the point it would seemingly be to just forsake love altogether and marry someone she despised and avoid it! Except, she knew what he would do to Narnia after they were married: if not right away, then surely eventually, that horrid Calormene prince would worm his way onto the throne. And she would not be willingly usurped. In fact, if only Edmund spoke English, she had this mad fantasy of making him her heir, abdicating in his favor. Such a fantasy would never come to pass, naturally, he being only eight the least of her problems, but she would rather have a brother she loved on the throne than a false king from another country, cruel and power-grasping. What good was beauty against swords, laws, and force? Rabadash and her advisers would both stand in her way, thinking her unable to fight back-too tender in heart to be cunning.

Edmund was too young to be king, and it was too dangerous to name him an heir; that was not her plan. No, her plan did not include him. And it was probably much more insane and dangerous than putting a child on the throne would have been. But, at least, it was _her_ neck going into the noose, should something go wrong, and nobody else's.

Sitting down at her writing-desk, Susan took a deep breath and dipped the quill into the ink. "I have to do this," she told herself softly, under her breath. "I've got to. I _must_, and there's nothing else for it."

Once the letter was composed, the ink properly dried (fancy smearing it after all her efforts!), and her composure regained, Susan slowly folded the parchment in a very precise manner.

Then, looking down, she moaned, "Oh, dear!" She had forgotten something rather important. "I need a knight's seal." If she didn't press an official-looking seal into the wax she used to hold the letter closed, how could she expect anyone to take it seriously? It wouldn't do her any good if Rabadash thought it naught but a prank to be crumbled up and discarded. "Whose do I...?" Her eyes landed on her wrist, on which she still wore the watch Peter had given her, the candlelight she'd been writing by winking off of the silver.

The following morning, Peter was strolling down a corridor, nodding politely to a maidservant carrying a heavy laundry basket who had stopped to curtsy to him because he was a knight, when the girl's eyes widened as she glanced over her shoulder briefly.

In a flash, the maidservant was gone. She had seen Prince Rabadash coming and cleverly gotten out of his way.

Peter didn't blame her; he half-wanted to do the same thing (the other half of him, as always, merely yearned to clout Rabadash in the face instead, rather than avoid the confrontation entirely).

The prince looked awfully peeved; he was scowling, stomping towards Peter determinedly, clutching something brutishly in his right hand. "_What_," he huffed furiously, his silk-covered chest heaving as he spoke, "is this, this, this?" At each utterance of the word 'this' he waved the something in his hand, flapping it emphatically.

Peter arched an eyebrow and gave him a look of cool annoyance. "It _looks_," he said sarcastically, mimicking Rabadash's tone and pattern of speech, "like a piece of paper, paper, paper."

"You think this is funny, don't you?"

"If you're referring to the 'do I smell stink' look on your face," said Peter with a light shrug, "then, yes, a little; but it's a becoming a bit of an old joke, to tell you the truth."

"I'm going to kill you," Rabadash told him.

"Well, good morning to you, too."

"How dare you challenge _me_!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Look at it!" He shoved the paper into Peter's hand so roughly he nearly bruised his wrist in the process.

Peter winced shortly but refused to show any other signs of pain or weakness in front of Rabadash. Looking down at the paper, he saw it was a declaration challenging Prince Rabadash to a joust for the right to remain in Narnia as well as to continue his courtship and betrothal to Queen Susan. It looked very official; neatly written, a mite terse and yet laced with its rightful share of courtly courtesy as well, and, on top of that, stated as an official challenge. If Rabadash agreed to the terms and lost, he would have to leave Narnia for ever. He could not even legally declare war on it, for he would have forfeited even that right.

A shrewder man, Peter thought, would have ignored it; for one couldn't lose and be exiled if one never agreed to the terms in the first place.

But Rabadash, of course, would never stand for being called a coward, or having someone even breathe the slightest hint of a whisper that he was unworthy of marrying Susan or being an ally of Narnia. It was true, every word of it, and Rabadash was too prideful to ignore such talk; even if it was only in a silly, not to mention unsigned, letter from some anonymous knight who wished to joust against him.

"What does this have to do with me?" Peter demanded.

"You wrote it."

"I did not!" Part of him wished he _had_ thought of it, just because he would dearly love to knock Rabadash off of a horse, but, in all honesty, he was _not_ the composer of the letter.

"It had your seal on it," Rabadash growled. "In the wax."

"Mine?" You could have knocked Peter over with a feather. Yes, he _had_ a seal; it had been given to him, designed for him, shortly after he was dubbed a knight, but he hadn't really used it. He certainly hadn't pressed it into the wax that held this controversial challenge closed. "But I didn't write this. Look, it isn't signed."

"You sign all your letters?" Rabadash took a step forward in a manner that was supposed to be intimating.

"The few I write, yes," he said tensely, glaring at him.

"So if I accept the challenge, it shall not be _your_ wretched face I see under the helmet of the dead man I destroy in the name of Tash, fighting in the joust?"

"Sorry to disappoint you," sneered Peter.

"Well, whoever he is, he's dead." Rabadash snatched the letter back from Peter. "I'll give Queen Susan his dented, red-stained armour and shield as a present."

Peter smiled slowly, a touch bitterly, beginning to turn round so he could exit the opposite end of the corridor and not have to spend another minute alone with Prince Rabadash. "Or maybe he'll give her yours."

The challenge was set for that very afternoon; preparations began the moment Rabadash started bellowing at his servants, and at any nearby Narnians, that he accepted and was going to teach the rouge knight a lesson. Perhaps, in his small brain, he was still convinced it _was_ Peter and the thought of disposing of him gave the Calormene prince endless giddy pleasure; he did not like the way Sir Peter Wolf's-Bane looked at Susan sometimes. Regardless, he felt perfectly confident that he would be the victor, even ordering musicians to announce his victory when it was over, ignoring Susan's advisers when they humbly mentioned that such an extravagance was not necessary for a moment's notice joust brought on by a challenge. It was a big occasion, certainly, they assured him, nothing to take _too_ lightly, but it was not a tournament either. Self-serving theme music, they protested, would be considered a rather disrespectful vulgarity by most in attendance. But Rabadash snorted something about how he was a prince and they were lower-ranking than him, no matter whose country or kingdom they were in, and so he knew best.

Peter, meanwhile, was taking his place-his seat arranged in the high stands under a fancy pavilion, wondering where Susan was. Edmund reportedly had another one of his headaches and Lucy was with him, but no one said anything about Susan and the queen's seat was vacant.

He spotted Catalina and got up to ask her if she knew.

"I haven't seen her all day," she told him.

"Caspian?"

"No, I am afraid not." Taking in Peter's anxious facial expression, he added, "She probably decided not to come; you know how she hates this sort of thing."

"One would think, as it's-to rather an alarming degree-over _her_, she would be here, though," Catalina felt the need to inject.

"Trumpkin?" He noticed the dwarf and his wife seated only a short ways down from Susan's cousins.

"Adeline saw her once today, this morning, carrying something long, thin, and taller than herself out of a chamber near the throne room (it was wrapped in cloth so she couldn't see what it was), but neither of us have seen the queen since."

Lady Adeline nodded in agreement. "Yes," she said softly. "I saw her then all right. She was very pale. I was going to ask her if she needed anything, but there was such an odd look in her eyes that I was almost...well, _afraid_ to. I also noticed her hands looked a bit black; I've never seen her walk around with so much as stained _fingers_ before."

"The knight!" said Lord Asher, rising from his seat at Trumpkin's right (Adeline was on the dwarf's left).

"He an awfully slender fellow, isn't he?" whispered Adeline to her husband.

The dwarf shrugged. "Must be very young."

Peter had a bad feeling. The knight was on an ashy-coloured horse, but the face bore a remarkable resemblance to _Susan's_ horse; her mare, Snowflake. Anyone could make a pure white horse look darker coloured by smearing it with soot and ashes from a fireplace. And if Susan had had blackened hands earlier, as Lady Adeline had innocently noticed... The tall thing she'd carried could have been for the joust...

"No," he muttered, in a pathetic attempt to reassure himself, "she _wouldn't_." Susan was sensible; she wouldn't do anything this dangerous, especially with so little chance of success.

Except, then, as the horses-Rabadash's steed and Snowflake-began to charge, he noticed something: her shoes, which no one else would think to be looking at (who stared at a knights _shoes _during a joust?), were jeweled. There was a bit of protective armour slipped over them, but some jewels and a faint glint of soft satin-like fabric shown through.

There was no hope of denying it; the knight who challenged Rabadash, who had stolen Peter's seal in order to do so, was definitely Queen Susan herself.

Peter wanted to cry out, "_Susan_!" at the top of his lungs. He wanted to stop her somehow; by any means possible... Except, it was no good-it was far too late for that.

"Oh, he is so small," Adeline suddenly whimpered, still in ignorance that it was her queen on the 'ashy-coloured' horse. "Rabadash will surely kill him." She reached over and covered Trumpkin's eyes. "I can't bear to watch."

"Pegs and pail-drums! Don't cover _my_ eyes, Woman!" protested Trumpkin. "_I_ can bear to watch; that is, if your hand wasn't persisting in blocking my view."

"Oh, sorry." She nodded and removed her hand, trembling.

Peter bit his lower lip.

Everyone gasped, almost unanimously. But it wasn't because they were sad for the 'small knight' being unseated; it was because it was _Rabadash_ who was laid out on the dusty ground, moaning and cursing.

Inside of her armour, Susan's heart beat like a hammer and she could feel every bit of her body simply shaking itself to bits. But she'd done it; she, the gentle child-queen of Narnia, had unhorsed Prince Rabadash of Calormen. She'd done it by pretending she was one of her arrows (she wasn't imaginative enough by nature to think of anything better) and that she had to go straight-as if she were flying rather than riding-and hit the target without fail.

Rabadash slowly got up onto his feet, spluttering and shaking his clenched fists.

It's now or never, Susan thought.

At first she hadn't been at all sure of revealing herself, but now she felt as if she would never get full closure on the matter if she didn't. Besides, _Peter_ already knew. She wasn't sure _how_ he knew, but she was certain he did; for he was coming towards her as fast as his legs would take him, and she highly doubted he would do so for some anonymous knight, however glad he was that Rabadash had been defeated.

Reaching up, Susan took off her helmet. Her dark hair, tied back in a makeshift ponytail but otherwise loose, not braided or pined up, fell down her chain-mail clad back. "You're finished history, Rabadash!"

Furious, the prince pulled out his sword and came running at her, but Peter-followed in a timely manner by the rest of the queen's guards and knights, now that they knew who she was and what she had just done-had already reached her. Peter helped her down from the horse and clasped her in his arms protectively, and the others stood with their swords out-stretched so that Rabadash couldn't possibly get through _all_ of them.

It would have been delightful for all the Narnians if Rabadash's dealings with their country ended there, if he truly honoured the agreement of the joust and left them in peace. However, if he had done so, he would not have been Rabadash. And the fact of the matter was that, in spite of Susan's great efforts to avoid it, Narnia was on the brink of war with the Calormenes; or, at the very least, the outskirts of a defining first battle, the results of which would decide whether or not there would be continued warfare.

Susan, fine archer though she was, could not lead an army out to battle. It was one thing to unhorse a pompous prince she was furious with once, in a lucky instance, but another entirely to ride out in front of her knights. Someone else would have to go in her place. She thought of Peter, and could truly think of no one better suited, but the courage to ask him, the bravery it would take to give him Rhindon and tell him to ride out as if he were king, eluded her. Moreover, the thought that he might be killed was too painful for the young queen to bear. She had lost Tumnus in death; she could not lose Peter to it as well. Nor could she stand knowing if he died it would be for her sake. He was loyal to Narnia, but it was not his country, not even his world; he didn't really owe them anything, knight of Narnia though he was.

Despairing, one day after her advisers had scolded her (except for Peridan's father, who took her part), saying the forthcoming Calormene invasion was her fault, Susan put her face in her hands and began to sob.

She fancied herself alone, but Edmund was there, and when he saw his sister, took in how hopeless she was, he knew what he needed to do.

Roughly two hours later, there was a knock on Peter's door. He opened it to find Edmund standing there, holding something long and thin wrapped in a silken cloth.

"Hello, Edmund," he said cautiously.

Edmund swallowed hard. "Hullo."

Peter almost choked on his own spit. Not only had Edmund just spoken to him for the first time, but he had spoken in _English_. No one at Cair had ever heard him utter so much as a single syllable that wasn't twin-speak.

"Yes," grunted Edmund, when Peter had been gaping wordlessly at him for almost three full minutes, "I _can_ speak English, when I _want_ to. I'm not an idiot."

"I'm sorry," Peter amended. "It's just nice to hear your voice, that's all."

"Can I come in?"

Peter opened the door wider, still feeling rather bewildered. "Uh, sure."

"Close the door."

He looked nervously at the wrapped object Edmund carried. Dollars to donuts, it was a sword.

"I'm not going to try to kill you," Edmund said flatly, rolling his eyes. "I'm still angry about Maugrim, but that doesn't matter right now."

Peter closed the door, feeling a bit foolish. "Right."

"Peter, you have to fight the Calormenes."

"What, me? Why me?"

"Susan's too afraid to ask you to, but she can't do it," Edmund told him. "_Maybe_ she can ride out with the archers, but even so... You know how she is, Peter. She can't do this. And I'm not old enough; they'd never let me go."

Shame, too, considering Edmund had beaten Rabadash in a fight once, his tender age notwithstanding. Except, there weren't likely to be very many randomly hanging hooks on the battlefield.

"So I went down and got this." He handed Peter the wrapped sword. "Use it for good this time."

Peter pulled the silk off of the sword. It was Rhindon. "Ed..."

"Don't say anything," he said abruptly. "Just, if Susan rides out with the archers, make sure she comes home safe, all right?"

Peter nodded.

"And..." he added shakily. "If she doesn't, you come back safe. _She _needs you as much as Narnia does, you know."

"I don't think I can do this," he blurted.

"Susan believes you can." Edmund blinked at him pensively. Then, "So do I."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yes...?"

"Those headaches you get, and your green eyes?"

"It's been happening since I was little," Edmund explained, sighing. "It used to be only once every few months, but it's got worse."

"What?"

"You know Lucy and I are half-witch." Edmund shrugged. "I guess for some reason, that part of us chose _me_ to linger in. I fight it as best I can, but it scares me sometimes. It's like a mist-a thick, green mist-in my head. I see things-glimpses of the future. Sometimes they're scary. I hear voices. It feels like someone's cracking my head open with a hammer. When it starts, like an attack, my eyes turn green. Lucy's the only one who knows how to help me; if she's with me, sometimes it's not as bad. That's why she needs to be with me a lot, in case I can't think... In case it happens again. I just wish I could make it stop."

"I'm so sorry." Peter couldn't imagine how horrible it must be for Edmund to have to deal with that, no one else besides his twin knowing-or understanding-why he acted so strangely. No wonder he and Lucy had built up a twin-world just for the two of them!

"Don't tell anyone."

"Can I talk about it with Susan?"

Edmund shook his head. "No, because I'm not going to tell her. She doesn't need to know, not yet anyway."

"But you told me," Peter said softly.

"Yeah, I did." Edmund nodded.

"All right, it's our secret, then."

Suddenly, Peter felt a bit weak in the knees and sat down on the edge of his bed, Rhindon in his lap. This was it; this was what he had been called into this world for; this was why he had Entanglement.

**AN: Please review.**


	20. How The Adventure Ended

**AN: Just a reminder, this is the second to last chapter...**

_It was in the late summer of 1549 that Peter left Narnia for ever, returning home-to his own world. _

_At first, I, Doctor Cornelius, did not fully understand, but something told me the boy could not stay after he had completed the task for which he had been called out of his world. _

_He did marvelously, fighting in the crusade against the Calormene invasion. Prince Rabadash's somewhat wiser (though equally unpleasant company as far as personality mattered) father the Tisroc would only allow his son so many men for the initial battle; and when the Narnian army, led by Peter, defeated these, no more Calormene soldiers were forthcoming. _

_Sullen and swearing revenge he must have known by then he could never truly deal out, Rabadash was forced back to his own country. Presumably he eventually stopped making preposterous threats (such as dragging Queen Susan off by the hair and forcing her to be his bride after all) and married some Calormene noblewoman who was pleased to have a prince for a husband, even an ill-tempered one, so long as he was handsome and rich._

_Peter, as time went by, often expressed his wish to marry Susan since she was no longer betrothed to Rabadash. But I-I am afraid I had to tell him he had best wait. Years were going by, and he went from fourteen to nearly twenty-one years old; yet I still objected to their marrying. _

_This was, you must understand, from a strictly scientific stand-point. I was fond of the both of them and felt they were a fine pair; him, for all his other-worldliness, a good as any true-blooded Narnian king, and her, for all her youth, the finest queen I could ever recall. But I feared what would happen if, as the task had been completed, Peter were to be one day called back into his own world. _

_They were already deeply entangled with each other. __Separation would already be painful. And I had never heard of anyone who visited another world permanently. _

_To some degree, I felt guilty, as if I had personally, in my aloof way, pushed them together only to keep urging them apart once a genuine bond of love had been formed between the two of them. _

_Then there came the day when I knew I'd done right, suggesting, both to they themselves and to Susan's advisers, that they not marry. _

_That was the day Aslan arrived at Cair Paravel. _

_He had come to send Peter home again. _

Susan was walking through the apple orchard when she heard a faint giggle. Lightly pressing her back against the nearest tree, she craned her neck to see who was there.

Lucy and Tirian were sitting on a checkered picnic blanket. Tirian had his arm around her, leaning forward to kiss her.

Giving them a minute, Susan finally revealed herself, stepping out from behind the tree. "Ahem." She coughed lightly into the palm of her hand.

They broke apart.

"Your Majesty." Tirian smiled guiltily and, standing up, managed a deep, respectful bow.

Blushing, Lucy turned to her sister. "Hallo, Susan."

"Don't worry," she laughed reassuringly. "I won't say anything to Peter." She put her right index finger to her lips. "But he_ is_ supposed to be meeting me here, so unless you _wanted_ to be seen..."

Lucy nodded, swallowing back another giggle. She loved Peter; aside from Edmund, there was no one, in that world or any other, she loved more, even her affection for Susan paling slightly in comparison (the queen knew this, and had long ago learned to be all right with it). But he had never lost that sense of over-protectiveness and desire to keep her from all harm. In Sir Peter's eyes, even more so than in those of her twin, Lucy was still seen as a child. Sometimes he looked at her, as if confused, wondering why and how she'd suddenly gotten so tall.

She was never to be a great beauty like Susan, but a womanly prettiness of her own, her (re-grown) distinctive long hair framing her ever-rounded and merry face, had slowly come upon her. Around the same time, she'd begun speaking more regularly in English to other people besides himself (Edmund did, too, but he was a much graver and quieter person than his twin, having less to say in general). And, when knights and squires and lordships and visiting princes started to take notice of her, Peter became concerned.

Especially, he was concerned about those visiting princes; he feared any one of them might turn out to be another Rabadash.

Yet, he needn't have worried, for two very good reasons. One, while she was more imaginative and fanciful than Susan about _most _things, when it came to romance, Lucy was shockingly sensible. A prince would be hard-pressed to pull the wool over her eyes. Princess Lucy was quite good at telling a friend worth having from a complete lout. Two, in one matter, Catalina had gotten her way: Lucy had, somehow or other, fallen in love with Tirian. No other young man could hold her attention for long. A few would-be suitors figured out quickly that it was Tirian she cared for and stopped trying. The more foolish persisted until Peter noticed. And, well, that was really all they needed to do to get themselves borderline-forcibly escorted out of Cair Paravel. Peter didn't know about Tirian, simply because Lucy wasn't sure how to tell him and Susan and Edmund had both promised they wouldn't, but he didn't like any men bothering Lucy, regardless of whether or not she fancied any one suitor above the others. If she so much as let out a half-moan about their pestering her, they were as good as done for.

So Lucy and Tirian folded up the blanket and hastily left.

Susan waited a while, expecting that, any minute, Peter would show.

Only, then, four hours went by and he never did.

That wasn't a bit like him, and Susan decided to check the garden to see if perhaps he'd misunderstood and thought they were meeting _there_ instead. Although, really, she would have thought, if that were the case, he would have checked the orchard for her by now, same as she was checking the garden.

Suddenly she saw something rich and golden walking towards her. She could hardly miss the gold thing, for even in the shade of the trees it was as bright as if it were in the direct light of the sun. It came closer and she saw that the golden mass was made of fur, even more brilliant than it looked from a distance.

It was a lion. No, _the_ Lion: Aslan himself. He was so perfectly beautiful, but terrible, too. She was a little afraid of him; not afraid he would eat her, as she would have been in the presence of a wild and dumb lion, or even a particularly perturbed talking one, simply afraid that he mightn't like her. Perhaps she had not always been as good a queen as she ought and he meant to tell her so.

Except she did not think she could stand being reprimanded by this Lion. Her knees were knocking together and she felt very much as if she wanted to cry.

Then she noticed Aslan was not alone. He was talking to someone on his left.

"Peter," Susan noticed, finally catching sight of him.

He didn't hear her say his name (her voice was too low), but that was the exact moment Peter noticed her, too, close enough to see her face and for her to see his.

He turned and looked at her, his expression utterly broken.

Susan felt a shiver run up her spine. Peter's eyes were blood-shot, as if he had been crying. Something Aslan said must have upset or frightened him, only she couldn't imagine what.

Doctor Cornelius had never fully explained to her why he thought they should not marry, even his explanation to Peter had not be entirely clear, so despite it being an annoyance, Susan was ill-prepared for what was to come. She did not suspect, when she saw his troubled face next to Aslan's rich golden one, fear in her heart notwithstanding, that Peter was going home. She hadn't any idea, really, barely even the slightest of inklings, that he had to leave Narnia-and _her_-for ever.

"Queen Susan." The voice of Aslan came, a deep rumble that was almost as golden as the rest of him, if one can speak of a sound as having colour.

Her legs felt numb as she managed a curtsey; it was the first time since Susan was four that her legs wobbled and she had to catch herself quickly from toppling over while managing it.

Opening his mouth, the Lion breathed gently on her forehead. "There, child. Do you feel braver now?"

"A little, Aslan," she quivered, steadying herself in the warmth of his lingering breath.

"Peter," he said next, his voice low and gentle, as if he understood how painful it was for him, "tell her what I've told you."

"I have to go home, Su."

She blinked at him, puzzled. "Home? Home, where?"

"Back to the world he came from," explained Aslan.

"No!" cried Susan, almost angrily. "_Why _must he go back? He's one of my knights, surely that...he... He's... Can't he...?" Her voice trembled and her eyes widened, noticing the faintest suggestion of a growl in Aslan's expression. "I'm sorry, Aslan."

"This is hard, I understand." He nudged her arm gently with his muzzle. "But you must understand as well. Peter has been in Narnia roughly seven years. The longest visit anyone can have between worlds is eleven. And it's risky for him to stay even that long. He would soon take sick. Even being entangled with another world cannot protect him from not being properly made for it. This is not his universe, dear little queen, nor his timeline. Besides, no time has gone by in his world while he has been here, but if he stays longer, it will begin to."

"That doesn't matter," blurted Peter, without thinking.

"Your _mother_, Peter," Aslan reminded him. "If time begins to pass in your world, she will miss you."

"She works a lot," he mumbled half-heartedly.

"You cannot still think, after all you've been through, and how you've grown and learned in Narnia, that she doesn't care for you. You know now, more than you did as a thirteen year old child in your own world, that sometimes people need to do things when-more than anything else-they would rather do the opposite."

_Like staying here for ever, with Susan_. Peter sighed, giving in. "I know she does. I know she cares."

"Then you have learned all you needed to," Aslan said. "That is the very reason you came here. I allowed you to become entangled, for the plan Doctor Cornelius came up with, for Susan's horn to bring you to Narnia, for three reasons. You seem to know two of them."

"One of them was to fight against the Calormenes," Peter guessed. "And to help Susan see that she shouldn't give herself in marriage to Rabadash. Is that right?"

The Lion nodded, shaking his shaggy sunset-coloured mane up and down so that it swayed in a regal and stunningly effortless manner. "Yes." Then, "The final reason was so that you could discover your own self-worth. In your own world, you suffered greatly at the hands of bullies. You needed to know your mother loved you, Peter, but you also needed to learn to love yourself. You needed not to measure your own worth by the thoughts and treatment of your peers. Here, in Narnia, you have fought battles, you have become great, but you are the same person you were there. When you return, you will be young again, the same person, yet much changed. You will have found the will to stand up to them, and to yourself.

"Will I never see him again?" sobbed Susan. It was such awful rotten luck, she did not think she would be able to endure. "I _love_ him."

"I know," replied Aslan, his expression so loving, there being a plainly visible trace of such great tears in his beautiful cat-eyes, that Susan thought for a moment that perhaps the Lion felt worse about her and Peter being separated even than she did. "That is what makes this all the more difficult. But it is what must be done."

"Then," asked Peter, "there is no hope?"

"Ah, there is always hope, Peter," Aslan said. "Always. Entanglement crosses over many worlds. Sometimes it is so strong that they can collapse over each other. And, while things never happen the same way twice, while it would not be the _same_, you would meet again. You are as entangled with Susan as with Narnia. When you go into your own world again, on the inside you will have grown too old for it, your connection to Narnia will slowly disintegrate. But the strongest part cannot be broken. It was Susan's horn, after all, that called you here. Your true Entanglement is with her. And hers with you. Though you scarcely knew it till recently. Nothing can end that."

What happened next was always rather a blur in Peter's memory. Aslan did something, opened his mouth, as if to call, and Edmund and Lucy, along with Doctor Cornelius, Caspian, and Peridan, appeared in the orchard.

For a split-second, Lucy gaped about in confusion. She had just left the orchard and only a minute ago she'd been talking to Tirian and to a beaver they'd run into in the corridor, and here she was, without explanation, back amongst the apple trees.

Then she noticed Aslan; her face lit up and her former bafflement ceased to matter.

She saw Aslan pad over to Edmund and whisper something in his ear. Being his twin, she knew what the Lion was doing for him; the one thing in the world he wanted-and needed-the most. He was allowing him to renounce the witch in his blood and be freed, at long last, from the suffering of his misty visions, green eyes, and headaches. It was a chance that would never come again, and while Edmund never told anyone-and no one ever heard from Aslan, either, as it was not concerning their own story or even Peter Pevensie's-the details of that conversation, he must have said all the right things, because he never had another attack again so long as he lived.

When the Lion told Lucy, after healing Edmund, that Peter was leaving and they had been brought here to say goodbye, she wanted to weep as Susan still was, but she did not; not till long after both Aslan and Peter were gone.

Instead, she focused her eyes on the Lion; her pain at losing Peter, despite being very great, could not phase her in Aslan's presence. Just looking into his face she honestly believed nothing bad could ever happen to her.

The flow of bitter tears _did_ come, she knew even then that they would, but for the time being her face was mostly dry.

All the same, as she embraced Peter tightly, a single tear escaped, unaccompanied, for she had taken her eyes off of Aslan's, shutting them as she said goodbye to Peter, perhaps for ever, and a dose of sadness had worked its way into her heart.

Peter shook hands with Doctor Cornelius and gave both Caspian and Peridan quick hugs goodbye, promising never to forget them, and to say hello to his Uncle Kirke for Cornelius.

Edmund was next.

Peter reached out, meaning to give him a handshake (he knew Ed was not one for much physical affection), surprised when he felt arms lock around him. "Take care of her for me," he whispered, quite choked up, into the ear that was unexpectedly in-line with his own.

Edmund gave his word. He understood what Peter meant. 'Her' meant Susan, Narnia, and Lucy all rolled into one. And he would; he would take care of them-his sisters and his country-as he promised. Somehow, Peter had gone from being a hated enemy of his to being someone he thought of as his brother. He would deeply miss him; he'd never thought in a million years he'd have a brother to lose in the first place, much less one from another world.

Last of all, Susan threw her arms around his neck and pressed herself as close to him as humanly possible.

"There, now," Peter whispered, feeling her reluctance to let go of him, despite the fact that she knew she had to, and sooner rather than later. "Worlds change. And, like Aslan said, we _are_ entangled. Maybe we'll all live together someday."

Susan slowly loosened her grip. Nothing was left but a clumsy last kiss while Aslan was opening a door in the air that would take Peter back home in a moment; then the pull of another world, stepping, almost involuntarily, through the door, and finally no more.

Peter was back in his sitting room at Uncle Kirke's house, lying on the couch as if he'd never left it.

Outside, as he remembered it had been, it was pouring rain.

There was no gnome this time; Peter got up and flicked one of the wooden chessmen kings down, just to be sure, but nothing happened. He was done traveling into other worlds, and no other strange guides were going to come to lead him on adventures. He'd had the great adventure of his dreams, but now it was over and he had to accept that.

Smiling faintly, blinking back tears, Peter picked up the king-piece and set it back upright himself.

**AN: Pleaseth to review.**


	21. After The Adventure

**AN: Sorry it's not exactly a long concluding chapter, but writing any more felt forced. So I had to end it as is. **

Peter spent all of Sunday in a quiet daze. His adventures in Narnia, even after accepting fully that they were over, were not something which could be instantly shaken off without a day almost of silent mourning following this acceptance.

For the first time, he thought he truly understood, perhaps a little bit, how Edmund and Lucy felt when they were separated; why it was so readily comparable to being an amputee. Narnia's loss did not hurt him so much as being without Susan did; he was connected to her, despite the fact that she was in one world-one completely different universe-and he was in another. It was rather like a bruise. A dark, defining, never actually healing bruise. He could function around it, but it was always there, like a soldier's wound that caught on something and ached if he wasn't careful.

And, honestly, Peter wouldn't have had it any other way.

That 'bruise' meant it had all been real, that he would love Susan for ever, no matter what. The pain mattered hardly at all to him. In fact, he wondered if it mightn't come to a point where, one day, he would be so used to it, so accustomed to missing Susan, that it wouldn't be like real pain at all.

Monday came round and, for once, Peter felt almost ready for school. One couldn't be frightened of _school_ after having been on a real battlefield! Being afraid of Taylor and his idiot friends after facing down Rabadash and his army of Calormenes would be like being afraid of a smallish pit bull after defeating a gigantic grizzly bear.

Going to breakfast, taking his seat at the oval table, actually eating his oatmeal with noteworthy vim (great adventures followed by mourning could produce a surprising appetite in a boy of only thirteen), he jumped a little when he heard the scrape of another chair being pulled back.

Helen was there, but she wasn't wearing her nursing clothes or carrying a clipboard, nor did she seem to be in any particular hurry.

"Morning, Mum," he said, making a somewhat vain effort to swallow quickly so he wasn't speaking to her with his mouth full.

"You might actually finish your breakfast this morning," Helen noted, looking pleased.

Peter shrugged. "It tastes good today." He gestured at what she was wearing. "No work today?"

"No, Love, I've got the day off."

He couldn't help smiling. "So... You mean to say, you'll still be here when I get home today?"

"Yes, I suppose such."

"Bye, Mum." He stood up and kissed her on the cheek, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. "See you after school."

Mashka wasn't on the bus (her father must have driven her to school that day), and Peter was a little ashamed to admit he barely noticed her absence at first; but in his defense, by his perception, he hadn't seen her on a daily basis for roughly seven years, so perhaps it wasn't _too _awful of him, really. He did remember her eventually and of course missed her then, so that is something.

Taylor Ehatwitch seemed much smaller than he remembered him being. And a whole lot more utterly pathetic, too. He'd used a homemade sling-shot to aim a pebble at Peter's head as he got on the bus, and Peter had barely flinched, drawing himself backwards a couple inches to avoid it; his reflexes were quicker now, just as his confidence was stronger. Even the bus driver seemed to notice there was something different about him and didn't flash him his usual scowl of unfriendly disdain.

At school, Peter was putting his books in his locker, ignoring the fact that Trevor was fake-coughing insults at him.

Taking out the only books he'd need for first period, he turned suddenly and looked very hard at him. "Trevor, is there something the matter with your throat?"

"You're stupid," Trevor blurted. "And you talk dumb."

"Thank you very much for that insight, I can see you obviously put a lot of thought into that well-grounded insult. You sure gave me a good what-for," said Peter, in a voice that sounded both sardonic and oddly diplomatic at the same time, one eyebrow slightly arched as if in vague amusement, shutting his locker and walking away, whistling to himself.

He thought, for a split-second, he saw Mashka talking to a boy with glasses who looked a bit like Asher, Trumpkin's steward, and hastily fast-walked towards them to see for himself.

Unfortunately, when he reached them, the boy was gone, and he wondered if it had only been his imagination.

"Mashka!"

She turned and grinned at him. "Hello, Petya! How was your weekend?"

He laughed. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Mashka."

"_That_ exciting, eh?" She elbowed him lightly.

"Words can't possibly describe it," he said. Then, "Hey, uh, if you don't mind my asking, who was that you were just talking to?"

She blushed. "I don't know, actually. He was very nice to me, though. I liked him. New student, I think. Has an accent like yours. Maybe Taylor will stop bothering you all the time now."

"Taylor doesn't bother me." Peter shrugged, rolling his eyes. "I've met _mosquitoes_ whose bites worry me more than Taylor's bullying."

"There is something different about you," Mashka mused, blinking at him. "It's like you're older."

"I _feel _older," he told her, sighing. "In a good way."

"I am glad. You are very cheerful today; it's nice. Do you know, that boy I was speaking to, he is not the only one with an accent like yours. There's a new girl, too. She is a seventh grader, I think."

Peter felt his heart skip a beat. He wanted to believe...possibly...but he wouldn't-couldn't bear to-truly _let_ himself. Entanglement, if it was what he hoped, was it responsible for this? "You don't say."

"Here she is now." Mashka pointed to a girl whose locker, ironically, turned out to be right next to Peter's, which he'd just left a minute ago.

Trevor was still there, joined by Taylor and Tommy, but Peter wasn't looking at them; he was captivated by the girl. She was as familiar to him as the back of his own hand; her hair was long and dark, her eyes blue, and even the mannerisms she displayed doing such a simple thing as opening her locker were identifiable. She was younger than the last time he had seen her, looking very much as she had when they'd first met, save for the fact that she wasn't dressed like Narnian royalty, but that didn't matter.

"_Susan_," Peter breathed, knowing her at once.

"Oh," realized Mashka. "So you already know her?"

"Yes," he said, when he'd finally caught his breath again. "I know her really well."

"How nice." She was glad he was going to have another friend on his side at Pulverulentus Siccus.

"You talk funny," Tommy was saying to Susan.

Peter, feeling very protective, clenched his fists and went back over to them.

"Shut up, you moron!" Taylor slapped his friend upside the head. "She's hot."

"Excuse me," Peter said, tapping Susan on the shoulder as soon as he was near enough. "Are they bothering you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

It felt so good to hear her voice; Peter felt his breath catch again in his throat as she turned round. In a moment, she'd be facing him and surely recognize him. He had so many questions for her, about how she'd gotten from her world to his, how much time had gone by in Narnia when it'd only been a day for him, how Edmund and Lucy were getting on, and so forth. But first, he had to deal with Taylor. He didn't care a fig if the bully wanted to try and pick on him (it was almost _amusing_ now that everything was different), but _Susan _was another story entirely. If Taylor really persisted in making _her_ uncomfortable, he was more than willing to put him in his place, and fast.

But when Susan looked straight at him, Peter was stunned to see that there wasn't even the vaguest hint of recognition in her eyes.

Didn't she know him as he knew her? Why wasn't she happier to see him?

All the same, there was the matter at hand to be dealt with. "Taylor, you and your little gang of hoodlums leave her alone."

"Oh yeah?" Taylor pursed his lips and folded his arms across his chest. "Make me."

"I _could_," Peter snapped, "but you're not worth the detention."

"You're dead meat, Pevensie." They tried to pick him up and shove him into Susan's locker, but he was too fast for them; in under two minutes they were panting by the water fountain across the hallway, Susan's empty locker was closed, and Peter was leaning against the wall, yawning teasingly, barely even having broken a sweat fighting them off. Every single blow they'd aimed at Peter had never even come close to reaching him.

He twisted his wrist, meaning to look at his watch, but it wasn't there. He'd forgotten, for a moment, that he had left his digital watch behind at the end of his adventures.

Thinking he wanted the time, Susan looked at the watch on her own wrist and informed him that it was, in fact, three minutes till first period.

Peter recognized it immediately as the one he'd given her back in Narnia, which made him wonder all the more how she could possibly not know him.

"Anyone wanna explain how this kid became _Spiderman_ over the weekend?" hissed Taylor to his friends as they quickly vacated the hallway together, once they had come out of their shock.

"Bye, Taylor!" Peter called after him.

"Thanks," said Susan softly, gazing at Peter.

"Su," he said, "do you have any idea who I am?"

"How can I?" she replied. "We've only just met."

"I see." Except, he didn't; not really. Or, rather, he saw plain as day what was happening, that she was here, with him, and didn't have the foggiest idea that they were friends-much less, that they were in love with each other-but he didn't _understand_ why it was that way.

The disappointment on his face must have been pretty overt, because Susan quickly added, "If it makes you feel any better, I can't remember much of anyone."

"What?" Peter crinkled his forehead.

"I was in a trainwreck," she told him, a bit shyly, tucking a strand of her dark hair behind one ear. "Earlier this year, in England. I couldn't remember anything, only waking up in a hospital bed, and I guess my parents thought..." Her voice trailed off. "I suppose they meant well. They thought it would be best if I started anew someplace, so the strain wouldn't be so great."

Something inside of Peter clicked. "Wait, _parents_?"

"Yes..."

"Both of them? _Both_ of your parents are alive?"

Now it was _her_ turn to crinkle her forehead. "Yes, of course they are. Why do you ask?"

Peter suddenly remembered something Uncle Kirke had told him about other worlds. Some universes were very close, even having the same people in both, only with different lives because of different choices and circumstances. He wasn't sure why Susan was in his, if she had always been here, unbeknownst to him, or if it was their Entanglement which had, by some strange means, caused the worlds to collapse over each other so that she unwittingly had become part of this world, this timeline, same as if she'd belonged for ever. But that was all right. What mattered was that she was there to begin with, and if they could fall in love once, it could surely happen again. And goodness knew their meeting in this world was much more friendly than their initial meeting in Narnia; Peter was hard-pressed to imagined _this _Susan almost accidentally killing him from exposure by forcing him to travel on a cold day. This Susan hadn't been raised as a queen.

The only sad part was that, if her mother was still alive, it meant there was no Edmund or Lucy in this world. Then again, perhaps that was for the best. People in this world wouldn't have understood the way the twins were with each other; they'd be sent to a psychiatrist for not speaking proper English, which could be detrimental to their development; Susan's separating them when they were small had done damage enough, and it was nothing to what people in his world might inflict upon them 'for their own good'. They were safer existing sorely in Narnia's world, universe, and timeline.

"I'm Peter." He stuck out his hand. "Peter Pevensie."

"Susan." She took his hand and shook it, feeling a strange blush rising to her cheeks upon contact. He had such a firm yet gentle grip for a thirteen-year-old boy. She didn't know him, but even so she could feel there was something between them, like they were old friends-if not anything _more_-who had met before in some past life.

But of course that was all stuff and nonsense; she didn't believe in that sort of thing.

"After school," Peter asked, a mite bashfully, "would you like to come over my house? I mean, well, it's not_ my_ house, actually, it's my great, great uncle's... But my Mum's going to be there, she has the day off for what feels like the first time since we got to this country, and... If you wanted to come and maybe meet her, and we could go over some homework together, if you wanted."

Susan nodded. "I would like that."

"Can I carry your books for you?"

"I don't think we have the same classes."

"I can be a little late," he said recklessly.

"Don't be silly," she laughed, shaking her head. "I can carry my own books. I'll see you after school."

"Wait."

She turned. "Yes?"

"It's just..." He looked at his feet and then back up at her. "It's just really nice meeting you, Susan."

"You, too, Peter." She let out a little sigh of contentment, beaming as she walked to class.

_And so, my great, great nephew discovered that while being a hero in another world was wonderful in its place, sometimes the most seemingly ordinary exchanges are the greatest adventures of all_.

-The End-


End file.
